


freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky

by tomorrowsrain



Series: The Inseparables [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, any additional warnings in chapter summaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowsrain/pseuds/tomorrowsrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight months after Savoy, Aramis is doing fine. Or was. Until now - stranded miles from Paris, injured, and pursued by annoyingly relentless enemies who want him dead. Porthos, at least, is a steady presence at his side, but it is a small comfort against the threat of the harsh winter and the enigmatic new recruit, Athos. </p><p>Then, of course, there is the fleur-de-lis branded on Athos' neck...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is first time I've written fanfiction in four years and my first time ever writing for this fandom, which means I'm more than likely a tad rusty, or a lot rusty, I'm not really sure. Basically, what I'm trying to say is: be gentle. Please?
> 
> Title is from William Shakespeare's "Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind."

**Winter, 1625**

The forest is white, pristine beneath a layer of snow. A stream babbles, fighting ice on its way to join larger waters. It is the only sound. The birds are gone, the earth asleep, the trees bare. The wind moves through their leafless branches like a lover’s caress.

It feels like a forgotten world. Or perhaps, Aramis thinks, a tomb.

He shudders. Tries to ignore memories of red on white, bodies in the snow.

“We should stop here,” Porthos says, voice too loud in the stillness. “I think we’ve lost ‘em for now.”

Aramis nods and adjusts his cloak, stubbornly ignoring the flash of pain that runs up his arm. He’ll deal with the wound later. After Athos has been seen to. He turns to watch Porthos lower their third member carefully into the snow. Athos hisses quietly, the first sound he’s made in hours, and blood leaks from between the gloved fingers clamped around his side.

“I’m fine,” Athos murmurs, still maddeningly steady.  “It’s a minor injury. We should keep moving.”

“No,” Aramis snaps as he crouches down by the man’s side. “You’ll bleed to death. Porthos, help me get him undressed.”

He may not know, or trust, Athos as he does Porthos, but he refuses to lose another comrade-in-arms. Not after …

He shuts the memories down quickly. It’s easier now, eight months after.  There is still snow and red on white, but this is not Savoy and they’re not going to die. If he tells himself that enough, maybe he’ll start to actually believe it.

Athos glares as Porthos approaches, muscles coiled and eyes as icy as the stream behind them. Six months and he has never let them close. Even now—wounded and stranded miles from Paris, from _anywhere._ It’s maddening. 

Aramis is freezing and hurting and scared and _furious._

He curls a gloved hand in the front of Athos’ doublet and gives him a small shake. “Let us help you, you idiot. You’re no good to us dead.”

Athos’ gaze flits to Porthos and back. A beat. A breath that fogs in the air between them. Then, he slumps in defeat and nods.

Aramis exchanges a look with Porthos over Athos’ bent head. _What’s his problem?_

Porthos gives a little shrug and crouches down on Athos’ other side, begins working his doublet from his shoulders. Athos winces, but doesn’t make a sound. For nobility, he certainly handles pain well. Maybe Treville’s insistence that he was a soldier has some merit to it after all.

Though, he certainly doesn’t fight like a soldier. Aramis flicks back to another snow-covered clearing and Athos’ sword nearly severing a man’s head from his shoulders, right after delivering a blow that crushed his nose.

Brutality like that …

Porthos curses, wrenching him from his thoughts, and he kicks himself for his distraction. Athos is down to his shirtsleeves and blood has soaked through the fabric in a large stain on his side.

Damn. Not good.

“A _minor_ injury?” He hisses as he leans forward to push the shirt up. “What do you consider a major one? Losing your head?”

Athos huffs a sound that could either be agreement or denial and Aramis offers a curse of his own when he sees the depth of the wound. It needs needlework, but his medical supplies went down with his horse.

 _Mierda. Very_ not good, then.

He takes a deep breath. No one is going to die. No one is going to die. _No one_ is going to die.

“We need to wash the wound and try to stop the bleeding,” he tells Porthos because Athos’ eyes have slipped closed. “Help me get him closer to the stream.”

“I’ll do it,” Porthos interjects, pushing Aramis back. “You’re hurt, too.” His expression says exactly what he thinks of Aramis trying to hide it.  Aramis glowers at him.

It’s been eight months. He doesn’t need a minder anymore.

But he still lets Porthos half walk, half drag Athos to the water’s edge as he carefully shrugs out of his own cloak and doublet. A dagger caught him across the back of his shoulder, but probing fingers reveal the cut is shallow and has already stopped bleeding. It aches, but it’s manageable.

He should still be able to fight, when the time comes. And it will. He doubts their pursuers have given up.

When he reaches the stream, he sees Porthos has untied the bandana from around his head and is soaking it in the water. Athos watches him, shivering in his thin shirt. Aramis can feel the cold sinking harsh fingers into his own skin, reaching for bone.

No, they don’t have much time.

“Here,” Porthos hands the wet cloth to him. “Cleaned it as best I could.”

Aramis shoots him a smile of thanks. “Help me get his shirt off?”

Athos stiffens again. “Is that necessary?”

Aramis frowns. “We’ll need your scarf, too. In lieu of bandages.”

Athos _flinches,_ shifting away from them as though suddenly trying to escape. “No.”

“Will you stop bein’ such a stubborn git?” Porthos snaps, grabbing Athos’ shoulder. “You wanna bleed to death out here?”

Athos is doing a marvellous impression of a cornered animal—all fierce eyes and tensed spine. “No. Find another way.”

“ _Shut up,”_ Aramis says, fury lighting up his blood again. Porthos and Athos both still, looking over at him. “Just shut up.” He clenches the soaked bandana in a trembling fist. “I am _not_ watching you die. I _refuse._ So be quiet and let me help you or Porthos will knock you unconscious.”

Athos’ eyes narrow in warning. Aramis raises his chin, prepared to stare him down. It doesn’t matter that Treville placed this bastard in charge of their mission. Bleeding out in the snow, rank can go hang itself. And social status along with it.

Aramis is the more experienced soldier and the field medic and in this, he will _not yield._

Porthos doesn’t intervene in their silent standoff, watching them both with wary eyes. Aramis is grateful. He can handle this. He already knows how it is going to end.

Sure enough, after another few breaths, Athos sighs, sharp, and looks away. “Fine.”

Porthos shoots him a relieved glance and reaches for Athos’ shirt. “But,” Athos adds, stopping him, “you must swear not to say a word about what you find.”

Porthos arches an eyebrow. _What the hell?_

Aramis dismisses his hesitation with a flick of his hand. They don’t have _time._ “I swear.”

Athos glances at Porthos, waiting. “I swear,” the other man adds.

Only then does Athos relax and nod for Porthos to continue. Aramis ignores the stormy look that crosses his comrade’s face. Porthos has never liked Athos, believing him an arrogant and drunk noble who got a commission on breeding instead of talent.

Aramis thinks there’s more to the story, but again. Another time.

He busies himself re-soaking the bandana as Porthos unties Athos’ scarf and bunches his shirt up under his armpits to give Aramis room to work.

The stunned sound he makes snaps Aramis to attention like a blow to the face. He’s only ever heard that sound once before from Porthos’ mouth and that was when he was dying in the infirmary after—

“What _are_ these?” Porthos rasps, staring with wide eyes at Athos’ exposed back. “Are … are these from a _whip?”_

Well.

Aramis hurries around to stand beside Porthos and sucks in a shocked breath. The man’s back is _covered_ in scars. There barely seems to be any unmarred flesh left.

_God._

Aramis eyes drift higher and he barely holds in another choked gasp when he spots the brand on Athos’ neck, exposed without the protective shield of the scarf.

The _fleur-de-lis._ Oh _Christ._

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers, stunned. When Aramis offers no answer, he leans forward and tilts Athos’ head to get a better look at the brand. “How did you get this, eh? _How?_ ”

Athos speaks through gritted teeth. “You swore.”

They did. And even though Aramis wants to demand answers—know _why_ someone bearing the mark of the condemned is among their ranks—Athos is still wounded and Aramis is through with watching people die. So he puts a steadying hand on Porthos’ arm and sinks back to his knees.

“Keep him still.”

“Aramis-“

Aramis silences him with a look. _Later._

Porthos shakes his head and settles his hands on Athos’ shoulders. Athos closes his eyes. And Aramis presses the wet cloth to the gash, pushing down hard.

He’s prepared for a scream or thrashing but Athos merely shakes and not a single sound leaks from his mouth. Aramis doesn’t know what to make of that.

Later.

Right now, he focuses on staunching the blood flow. The cloth soaks through quickly so he has Athos apply pressure while he rinses it and puts it back again. They repeat the process three more times before the flow has slowed to a trickle. Not once does Athos make a noise of pain. Aramis wraps the scarf around Athos’ torso, pulling it as tight as possible, and then washes the bandana one last time in the river as Athos sags back against Porthos.

The air wheezes leaving his lungs but he stays conscious.

After redressing him, Porthos leans him carefully against a tree and joins Aramis, taking the bandana. “Let me wash yours.”

Aramis doesn’t protest. His hands are trembling.

God, it’s cold.

The cloth is freezing against his skin, but he keeps still until Porthos is done.  

“What now?” Porthos asks as he washes out the bandana and Aramis slides his doublet back over his shoulders.

“We need to make it to Paris,” Athos murmurs, eyes still closed.

Porthos glares at him. Aramis flexes his fingers, wishing he could stop their annoying quivering, but they continue to betray him. Ghosts are seeping into the corners of his mind.

Red on white. Bodies in the snow.

He shakes his head. Later, _later._

“Paris’s at least a seven days ride,” Porthos is saying when he refocuses. “ _With_ horses. And ours’re dead.”

“I noticed,” Athos remarks dryly. Aramis kind of wants to punch him.

“We should find shelter. Perhaps a courteous farmer,” he says instead, settling his hat back on his head. Horse and supplies gone but somehow he held onto this. “Then Porthos can borrow a horse and ride on to Paris and—“

Porthos rounds on him, eyes blazing. “I ain’t leavin’ you behind.”

The _not with him_ and _not injured_ is unspoken.  Aramis sighs and glances at Athos. The other man is still shivering and the brand is ugly against the pale skin of his neck. He wants to know _why._ Has to know, if he’s ever to trust Athos.

But…

“I’m sure we’ll manage not to die of boredem, stuck out here in the woods,” he says quietly, attempting a reassuring smile.

Porthos’ brow furrows. Aramis isn’t surprised. He hasn’t been good at reassuring smiles since _then._

Athos chooses that moment to stand, hauling himself up using the rough bark of the tree. Porthos instinctively moves to help him and it’s a perfect glimpse of the massive heart that beats in his friend’s chest. He doesn’t trust or like Athos, but he still can’t leave him to struggle.

Once Athos is upright, he sways dangerously but stays on his feet. “We need to keep moving,” he repeats. His voice is hoarse—from swallowing screams, Aramis suspects. “They can’t be far behind us. And they still have horses.”

“You don’t need to remind us,” Porthos grumbles even as he retrieves Athos’ doublet and cloak.

Aramis scrubs a hand over his face. Right, their lovely pursuers. In all the drama, he’d nearly forgotten them. “We’ll never outrun them.”

“You and Porthos might.”

Aramis whirls to face Athos. The other man shifts his weight but meets Aramis’ stunned stare without flinching. “I can try to lead them astray. Give the two of you enough time to make a successful escape.”

“No.” Porthos—automatic, authoritative.

Athos’ jaw tenses in frustration. “We need to deliver the cargo to the king. At any cost.”

The cargo—documents warning the king of coming treachery. The cylinder holding them is suddenly heavy against Aramis’ back.

“I ain’t lettin’ you die until I get answers.”

“You won’t get them. So I suggest you do as I say.”

“I don’t take orders from a liar.”

“It _doesn’t matter._ Just take the cargo. Head for Paris. I’ll manage.”

For a horrible moment, Aramis considers. Better this stranger, this _criminal_ in a musketeers’ uniform, than Porthos. Than himself.

But …

(Red on white. Bodies in the snow. The last one breathing and _why?)_

… it only lasts a moment. He cannot become that kind of man. He _won’t._

“Stop it,” he snaps to Porthos and Athos. “No one is becoming a martyr.”

He looks at Porthos. _I can’t lose anyone else._

Porthos understands, like always, and backs down. Aramis closes the distance to Athos. Crowds into his space.

“I won’t ask questions, I keep my promises. But it’s clear you cheated your way into that uniform. So from now on, we don’t take orders from you.” A pleasant, jagged-edged smile. “Understand?”

Athos expression is unreadable.

Porthos steps a threatening step closer. “’E asked you a question.”

Athos relents with a slight dip of his head. “Very well. I understand.”

Aramis tips his hat to him.

“But can I make a suggestion?’

Right. Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. “What?”

“We should follow the stream. It may lead to some form of civilization.”

Porthos shakes his head before Aramis can respond. “Too obvious.”  He gestures toward the forest on the opposite bank, where the trees thicken. “We need better cover. To go where their horses can’t.”

“We need shelter. Supplies. We’ll die of exposure or infection if we go deeper in.”

“What did we just say about havin’ to listen to you?”

“Porthos is right,” Aramis interjects when Athos opens his mouth again to retort. “They’ll find us too quickly if we keep near the water.”

He adjusts his weapons, pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and glances back at his companions. “Now, can we move?”

They cross the stream in silence—Porthos keeping a close eye on Athos while Aramis takes point. The trees soon envelope them, close-grown and cloying.

Aramis just hopes they’ll be enough.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

  **10 Days Earlier**

“Why ‘im? Why can’t you and I go?”

Aramis glances across the courtyard to where Athos is saddling his horse. “I think Treville wants him to get used to working with the other musketeers.” 

Porthos makes a disdainful sound as he adjusts his saddlebags. “That doesn’t answer my question.” He buckles his sleeping roll down. “You think the captain’s punishin’ us for somethin’?”

Aramis shrugs. It could be. But Treville usually prefers yelling to underhanded tactics like this. He shoots another glance at Athos. The man looks calm and composed, as always. One would never suspect that he drank himself into a stupor just last night.

A drunk with the speech and bearing of nobility—Aramis can understand why it makes Porthos’ blood boil.

“And why put ‘im in charge?” Porthos is still grumbling. “You’ve got the most experience.”

This, Aramis suspects, is more straightforward. He hasn’t been in charge of a mission since _then._ And Athos is probably accustomed to people following his orders.

“We’ll just have to grin and bear it, _mon ami,”_ he says as he fastens his cloak over his shoulders. “It’s only two weeks. Surely we’ve endured worse.”

Porthos grunts. Aramis takes it for agreement.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

  **Present**

He hates the woods. And the cold. And the damn _snow._

Night is falling, the shadows lengthening, and he draws them to a halt in a small clearing. They’ve been walking for hours and the trees are starting to thin again. So far, there have been no signs of their pursuers but he doubts their luck will hold, even if he’s been doing his best to cover their trail.

Porthos leans Athos against a nearby tree. Progress has been slow and agonising but the wounded man hasn’t complained once. For that, he’s at least earned Aramis’ grudging respect.

Athos breathes heavy and loud into the hush around them. It still feels like a tomb.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” Porthos murmurs, coming to his side.

Aramis frowns. Takes stock. He’s exhausted, starving, and his shoulder is achy and stiff from the cold. “Fine.”

Porthos arches an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t comment. Good man.

Aramis pats him on the arm as he passes, going to check on Athos. Athos watches him warily, but allows him to pull away layers of clothing and examine the wound. The makeshift bandage has soaked through, but the bleeding seems to have stopped for the moment.

He still wishes he could treat it properly.

The brand catches his attention, as it has ever since its discovery. It seems to be all he can see when he looks at Athos now.

He swallows back the questions for what has to be the hundredth time.

“You’re in luck. It looks like you won’t bleed to death. At least, not yet.”

“Comforting,” Athos murmurs wryly. He’s shivering and ashen. Aramis fears a fever if they keep on like this.

He readjusts Athos’ cloak and the query slips out, unbidden. “Does Treville know?”

Athos tilts his head towards him and Aramis reads the warning in his gaze easily. His lips quirk in a faint smile—a pathetic attempt at charm. “Answer me that, at least.”

Athos shifts and winces. Aramis waits, willing to be patient. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

Good question. Would he? That would mean Treville is guilty of treason, of betraying the honour of the musketeers by allowing a convicted criminal into their midst.

Treville is many things, but disloyal to the crown has never been one of them.

“I don’t know,” he answers softly, choosing honesty.

The corner of Athos’ mouth lifts in a feeble smile of his own.

“Aramis.” Porthos’ voice is low, urgent. When Aramis glances over, he sees the other man’s head cocked, listening. “You hear that?”

After a moment, he does—the crunch of horses’ hooves in the snow.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skirmishes, confessions, and ghosts creeping closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for your lovely comments. I hope you enjoy this next chapter. More to come soon. x

Porthos is already moving, grabbing Athos and dragging him back into the underbrush. Aramis draws his pistol and unslings the cylinder from his shoulders.

“Porthos,” he hisses, holding it out. Porthos materialises to take it from him.

 _Be careful,_ his eyes say.

Aramis smirks at him. _When am I not?_

Porthos shakes his head, but retreats to Athos. The horses are getting closer.

Aramis creeps through the trees, sticking to the shadows, retracing their steps. He tries not to think of Savoy, of hiding while his brothers died around him. These are different woods and his pistol is a comforting weight in his hand. This time, he will not be helpless prey.

He reaches another clearing, where the trees have thinned considerably and the underbrush is heavy, and there they are. Two riders. They must be scouts, split off from the rest. One has dismounted and is examining the ground, looking for tracks, while the other maintains vigil from his saddle, weapon drawn.

This is going to have to be quick.

Taking a deep breath, Aramis aims at the rider and draws his _main gauche_ with his other hand. Hopefully, no one else is around to hear when he fires. A lance of pain runs through his injured shoulder, but he grits his teeth and bears it. He cannot miss now.

_Bang._

The gunshot echoes like a clap of thunder. The rider falls with a musket ball through his heart. The other scout rises, alarmed, reaching for his own pistol. Aramis hurls his _main gauche_. It slams into the scout’s back with enough force to knock him to the ground. As he falls, Aramis rushes from his cover and finishes him with a slash from his sword.

The world stills.

Aramis bows his head, leaning against a tree for support. His shoulder feels as though it’s been covered in hot coals and he spends a few precious moments wrestling the pain back under control. Once it no longer feels like he’ll collapse if he takes a step, he turns toward the horses.

They’re skittering, nervous from the skirmish, but still here. And their saddlebags are full of supplies. It’s almost enough to bring Aramis to tears.

After retrieving his _main gauche_ , he calms them and takes their reins, leading them back towards where he left Athos and Porthos. As he gets closer, he hears an ominous _click_ and freezes. Could there have been more of them? What if they heard the gunshot and have come looking? He foolishly forgot to reload, too caught up in getting the horses, and now with only a sword and _main gauche_ he’s facing horrible odds.

His eyes dart, looking for a good hiding place, as he wonders if he should leave the horses. Then, Porthos steps out of the brush.

Aramis sags in relief.

“Don’t do that!” He hisses when he’s recovered. “I thought you were another scout.”

“Well you didn’t announce yourself, either.” Porthos fires back.

 Aramis huffs. Lets it go. “Where’s Athos? You didn’t leave him, did you?” 

“I’m right here.” He turns to see Athos picking his way towards them, clutching his sword in one hand. “I may be wounded but I can still walk.”

Aramis buries his irritation at that dry tone.  Fortunately, Porthos provides a distraction.

“What happened? We heard a gunshot.”

“There were two scouts. I killed them and took their horses.” He gestures, perhaps unnecessarily, at the animals behind him. “They have some food, extra cloaks, and a few bandages but unfortunately no proper medical supplies. Still, I say it’s an improvement on our current situation.”

Porthos grins, bright, and claps him on the back. “Good work.”

Athos, however, frowns. “Where are the rest of them, though? There were at least a dozen when they first attacked us. That gunshot might have alerted them to our presence.”

Aramis glares, irritation rising. “It was a calculated risk. For horses. And it’s a problem easily solved. We keep moving. Which we can now do faster. Because of the horses.”

Athos shakes his head and sheathes his sword. Porthos’ fingers curl over Aramis’ good shoulder in silent support.

“Can we knock him unconscious?” Aramis whispers.

“I don’t wanna lug his weight around.”

Aramis sighs. “Pity.”

Porthos squeezes his shoulder and takes one of the horses, leading it towards Athos. “C’mon, this isn’t gonna be fun.”

Athos eyes the horse with barely concealed trepidation, but approaches nevertheless. It takes a few agonising starts and stops and a lot of pained grunts, but finally he's is seated on the horse and Porthos swings up behind him, taking the reins. Aramis drags himself onto the other horse, breathing heavily through his nose to combat the throbbing in his shoulder.

Once he’s settled, he turns the mount to face Porthos. “The scouts were moving from the southeast, following our trail.”

“They know we’re headin’ for Paris.”

“Then we should ride due west for awhile,” Athos chimes in. “It might throw them off.”

West, towards Gascony. Mostly farmland, not many larger villages or towns. Aramis can’t remember who, if anyone, controls that land, but they’ll deal with it if it becomes a problem.

“Fine,” he says, wishing it wasn’t Athos who made the suggestion. “Let’s go.”

They have only an hour of light left, at best, but it might at least put some distance between them and their pursuers.

Aramis glances over at his companions. Athos has slumped in the saddle already, leaning back against Porthos for support. His breath is shallow puffs of air, far too slow. Aramis reaches up and places a hand over his chest, where his rosary sits beneath his clothes.

 

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

**9 Nine Days Earlier**

“So what do you think this is all about?”

Aramis shrugs, watching Athos a few paces ahead of them. A whole day of riding and the man has said no more than three full sentences to them. “I don’t know. The captain just said we’re to meet a man outside Lodève and that he has important information for the king.”

“Still don’t know why this needs three of us.”

Aramis doesn’t, either. It seems like a simple errand. Unless the captain is expecting trouble, but he would have warned them if that was the case and all he did was told them to play nice before sending them off. Play nice. How patronising. Though, from the reputation Athos has garnered, the warning might be needed.

Six months in the regiment and no one likes him. He’s too standoffish, too arrogant, too _noble._ While the musketeers may stand by the side of the king, few of them are from high stations and they have little room for those who are. Athos never really stood a chance. But the man doesn’t seem interested in forging bonds. He does his duty, goes to a tavern, crawls into his cups, and then stumbles home to sleep it off.

Aramis isn’t sure what to think of it.

“We might as well make the best of it, _mon ami,”_ he tells Porthos with a bright smile. “I’m sure we’ll wear him down eventually. No one can resist our charm forever.”

Porthos laughs, boisterous. Athos doesn’t turn around.

 

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

**Present**

The light is gone. They cannot ride any further or they risk injuring the horses. And it’s started to snow. 

Aramis pulls his mount to a stop, scanning the woods for a good resting place. At least the snow gleams in the moonlight, making vision easier.  It’s the only redeeming quality of the miserable stuff.

“Aramis,” Porthos calls and he turns in the saddle, follows Porthos’ nod to a dark shape nestled amongst the trees fifty yards away, possibly some kind of building.

Frowning, he spurs his horse closer. As he nears it, he realises that it’s the burnt-out shell of what was once a barn.

“Do you think it’s safe?” Porthos asks, coming alongside him. Athos looks small and frail huddled against his chest. He’s shown no signs of movement in almost an hour and it’s worrying.

“It’s better than the open air,” Aramis murmurs and dismounts, leading his horse carefully through the growth towards the structure.

The wood of the barn is blackened from old flames and the back section of the roof is gone, but its walls remain intact. Inside there is even some long-forgotten straw amongst the new growth—the forest slowly reclaiming its territory. It will do for a night and Aramis sends up a silent prayer of thanks as he beckons Porthos inside.

He ties his horse in the far corner and then hurries to help Porthos lower Athos to the ground. Athos’ fingers dig into his chest as Porthos eases him into Aramis’ arms and he gasps in pain, louder and less restrained than he’s uttered so far. Aramis fears they’re losing him, little by little—his life slowly soaking into that bloodstained scarf.

Aramis guides him over to the straw as Porthos tethers the other horse and lowers him gently onto it. It isn’t much, but it should provide at least a small degree of warmth.  Athos makes another choked sound and pants into the dirt. He’s shaking and Aramis feels his forehead, relieved to find no signs of fever. Yet. Another day or so of this and it will be inevitable.

“I’m going to take another look at the wound.” 

Footsteps approach. He looks up to find Porthos already extending the bandages from the stolen saddlebags and smiles his thanks. “Can you get some snow? We’ll use it to clean the wounds.” He would like herbs, too, to combat infection, but there is no time to look and proper ones are scarce this time of year.

Porthos nods and slips back out into the woods. Aramis returns his attention to Athos, getting his cloak and doublet off.  The scarf has completely soaked through and Aramis removes it cautiously. It’s stuck to the skin in some places and requires extra manoeuvring, which Athos endures silently—head hung and teeth gritted through the pain.

“There,” Aramis murmurs when the scarf is finally free.

The gash is deep and long, but there are no signs of infection and the bleeding has ceased for now. “Well, it could be worse,” he tells Athos, trying to be optimistic.

“I know,” Athos mumbles back, and the idea that he’s had worse is heavily implied.

Porthos chooses that moment to return with a bowl of snow. Aramis slides his gloves back on and takes a handful, spreading it over the wound. Athos flinches at the cold, but otherwise holds himself still until Aramis is finished. Not a bad patient, Athos. Certainly more manageable than Porthos.

Once he’s re-bandaged the wound, he and Porthos get Athos back in his layers and retrieve some of the food. They’ll have to ration it carefully and even then it will only last them another two days, at most. Now, though, all he can think about is getting some sustenance into his aching stomach.

It’s Porthos who tears off a chunk of bread and hands it to Athos. “You need to eat somethin.’ Keep your strength up.”

Athos takes the bread in a shaky grip, but manages a sizable bite. Aramis sits down in front of them and for a moment they eat in silence, trying to ignore the ever-present cold that still permeates the air.

“I did not expect this,” Athos says suddenly, eyes on the bread in his hands.

Aramis shares a questioning look with Porthos. “Expect what?”

“Kindness.” He glances up at them with a rueful twist of his lips. “It is a rarity, once people have learned what I am.”

Aramis chews slowly, arranging his words. “I do not approve of you, especially that you wear our insignia. The musketeers have no place for a criminal. But I would never wish you dead. Death without justice, or reason, is … cruel.”

He takes another bite and avoids closing his eyes because red on white will be waiting—bodies in the snow and Marsac’s agonised screams.

“Most people see this mark as reason enough,” Athos counters quietly.

“Not me,” Aramis says, surprising himself with the fierceness of his tone.

“Or me,” Porthos adds. “Besides, you’re pretty decent with a sword. Even wounded. It’d be a shame to waste that.”

“We’ll deal with it when we get to Paris.”

Athos’ eyes are piercing in the dim light. “Are you going to report me?”

“How’d you get the mark?”

Athos looks away and holds his silence. Aramis sighs. “Then we don’t know.”

“For now, we should sleep,” Porthos says with a pat to Aramis’ good shoulder.

Aramis nods his assent and stands. They unfurl the sleeping rolls on top of the straw, packing more in around them and huddle close, using the two spare cloaks as blankets. Athos, by unspoken agreement, lies in the middle, shielded on either side.

Aramis stares up into the darkness and focuses on the steady breathing of his two companions, reminding himself that they’re alive. This is not Savoy. No one is going to die. Sleep still seems a long way off, even as exhausted as he is, and he fears the ghosts that wait in his dreams.

“I murdered my brother,” Athos whispers, then, breaking the heavy silence that has fallen. Aramis starts, twisting, but he can barely make out the other man’s features in the shadows—not enough to see his expression. His voice is calm, detached, and it chills Aramis far more than the winter air. “And attempted to murder my wife.”

“What?” Porthos hisses and Aramis can see him start to sit up. Holds out a hand to still him.

Murder. _Christ._ He wishes desperately he could see Athos’ face, try to read truth or lie in his eyes.

“Why?” He asks, wondering what prompted Athos’ sudden confession. Maybe it’s the darkness. In the comfort of disguising shadow, men can be brave.

“Does it matter?” Athos asks and now there is emotion—a combination of grief and bitterness—lacing his words.  

“Course it does.”

“It didn’t to the courts.”

Aramis swallows, fights the strange urge to reach out to the other man. “It does to us.”

Athos sighs—a long exhale infused with weariness. “You’re right. We should sleep.”

Aramis considers pushing further, but he’s witnessed Athos’ stubbornness firsthand and it will be futile. They will get information when Athos is ready to give it and not a second before. So he swallows his questions and lies back down.

But not quite as close as before. The knowledge that he’s sleeping beside a convicted murderer makes his skin crawl and his hand rest near his sword.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Aramis wakes muddled and disoriented, past and present blurring together. There’s a body beside him and he’s cold and aching and he can see winter sky when he blinks open his eyes.

He jolts upright, scrambling to his feet, and whirls to look at the corpse. It’s Athos and his chest is rising and falling with shallow breaths. Not dead. And they’re in a barn, not the open woods.  Not Savoy. Not Savoy.

But Porthos is missing.

Panic seizes him again and he turns a fast circle, assessing. Both horses are still there. The battered door is ajar. 

“Porthos!” He calls, grabbing his pistol and sword. What if something happened?

Athos starts at the noise, jerking awake, as well. He moves to sit up and gasps, clutching his side. Aramis ignores him, staggering to the door. What if he went out and was taken? Or killed?

Bodies in the snow.

He feels sick.

“Porthos!”

He steps out into the snow-covered woods. A fresh coat has fallen in the night and the wind bites at his face. The light is still pale, just rising. He sees footprints in the snow, leading away from the barn. Athos stumbles up behind him, also armed.

“What’s wrong?”

Accusations rise up, but that’s the panic talking. Athos has no reason to kill Porthos and would never have managed it in his wounded state. So he shoves down the voice hissing _murderer_ and tries to remember to breathe.

“Porthos is missing. We have to find him.”

Athos’ hand lands on his shoulder. Aramis flinches. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Then where is he?” Aramis snaps, rounding on Athos. “He wouldn’t just wander off. What if they took him or—”

The snow crunches and Aramis turns again, raising his pistol.

“Whoa.” Porthos says, raising his hands as he steps out of the trees. “Easy.”

Aramis doesn’t immediately lower the weapon, anger mingling with the still-fading panic. “Where were you?”

“I was just takin’ a quick look round. Make sure no one’s been followin.’ I haven’t been gone ten minutes.”

“You can’t just wander off like that!”

“It was ten minutes. And you both needed the rest. Now, would you put the gun down?”

Aramis grudgingly drops his arm, surprised to find he’s trembling. He can feel Savoy breathing down his neck. “Don’t ever do that again,” he says, quiet.

Porthos’ expression softens in understanding. Aramis hates that familiar look, how _weak_ it makes him feel. “Okay. I won’t. I promise.”

“ _Has_ anyone been following?” Athos asks, leaning against the doorway.

Porthos’ gaze slides away from him and he takes the opportunity to compose himself—push the ghosts back into their box. “Not that I can tell. They probably stopped for the night like us. We should still get movin’, though.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees, emotions safely stowed away. “They’re annoyingly persistent, aren’t they?”

Porthos smirks at him. “I’m almost flattered.”

“Sadly, it’s the documents and not us that are so important to them.”

“Worth less than a piece of paper. Strange, huh?”

“Hardly,” Athos adds and there’s a sharp edge to his drawl that grabs Aramis’ attention. Athos notices his stare and looks away quickly, retreating into the barn.

“Do you think it’s true?” Porthos asks once they’re alone. “Bout his brother and wife?”

“He was convicted, wasn’t he?”

“Doesn’t make it true.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He sighs, runs a restless hand through his hair. “We’ll just have to wait until he feels like telling us.”

“Great.”

“Good thing patience is one of our many virtues, eh, _mon ami?”_

That brings a smile to Porthos’ mouth. “Course. Close to saints, we are.”

Aramis returns to the barn smiling, feeling lighter than he has in days.

 

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Two hours later and the feeling is gone completely.  He’s freezing and miserable, Athos’ condition seems to be worsening, and they caught sight of riders in the distance half an hour ago. They’re pushing the horses as fast as they dare in the icy conditions, but it’s only a matter of time before their pursuers catch up.

He adjusts the cylinder once again strapped to his back and glances behind them. Woods have turned into rolling hills and he feels exposed—a black stain on the white landscape. The snow makes them pathetically easy to track.

They stop atop a hill, scanning. No signs of life, but Aramis can feel time running out.

“We need a plan,” he says when they stop again on the edge of a small copse of trees. “We’ve crossed into Gascony. It’s farmland. We might be able to find shelter with some of the locals.”

“We cannot,” Athos says, managing to sound authoritative even with pain weakening his voice. “If they find us they won’t hesitate to slaughter any who give us shelter. It would be dishonourable to—”

“Don’t speak to me about honour!” Aramis snaps, furious at Athos’ hypocrisy, his gall, sitting there lecturing _them_ on honour when he has the mark of a convict seared into his flesh. “You know nothing of it.”

Athos’ jaw tenses, but to Aramis’ surprise he lowers his gaze. “You are right. My apologies.”

“E has a point, though,” Porthos admits. “We can’t endanger any civilians, Aramis.”

“We can’t hide, can’t outride them—what do you suggest?”

Porthos assess their surroundings. “We’ve only seen four so far. Could be another scoutin’ party. I think we can take four.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Athos asks quietly.

“What else can we do?”

“You can ride on to Paris while Aramis and I—”

“Don’t start,” Porthos growls, threatening.

Aramis adjusts his hat, trying to think. “Porthos, find some high ground. I’ll see if I can find out how many there are.” He takes off the cylinder and hands it to Porthos. “And take these. Just in case.”

Porthos looks ready to protest. Aramis glares. _Trust me._

Porthos relents, accepting the container. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

He feigns innocence. “Me? Never.”

Porthos shakes his head, but turns his horse in the direction of another tree-covered hill and leaves at a canter. Aramis watches him go for a moment, praying for his safety, and then heads back the way they came, trying to stay out of sight.

He finds them too quickly for comfort. Four riders—masked and dressed in black. Another scouting party, just as Porthos predicted.

Four. Not bad odds. They’ve faced far worse.

Hope blooming in his chest, he spins his mount around, ready to return to Porthos and plan an ambush.

The shot catches him by surprise. It sounds like a cannon firing—close enough to engulf the world. His horse rears, wounded, and starts to topple sideways in the snow. Panicked, he pulls his legs free of the stirrups, trying to clear the fall.

Not fast enough. Not fast—

He lands on his arm with enough force to hear a sickening _crack_ and pain whites out his vision. Somehow, he manages to cling to enough sense to roll out of the way as the horse hits the ground beside him and then he lays still, stunned.

A voice urges him to get up, _run,_ but his arm is on fire and so are his lungs and he can’t _move._

Approaching footsteps. A boot kicks him onto his back. He stares up at the masked face of one of the riders and thinks, with a sense of detachment, that he was an idiot. There were _five_ and now his inattentiveness has cost him dearly.

Porthos is going to kill him for this.

Something hard connects with his head and the world falls away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounds are tended and masks start to crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everyone enough for the response to this story. It warms my heart. You guys are awesome. 
> 
> WARNING: Mild (and brief, I promise) scene of torture.

He’s wrenched back to consciousness by freezing water being thrown in his face. Rather rude, really, and he would tell them so if he wasn’t busy trying to get the forest to stop blurring. When his vision finally clears, though, it isn’t much of an improvement.

He’s tied to a tree and surrounded by the members of the scouting party. All  _five_ of them.

_Mierda._ Porthos is  _definitely_ going to kill him. Slowly and painfully.

“Musketeer,” the apparent leader says, stepping forward. The lower half of his face is obscured but he sounds like he’s smiling. Bastard. “Welcome back.”

He opens his mouth, insult primed, but all that comes out is a pained cough. Good thing Porthos isn’t here to witness that humiliation.

“We have some questions for you. One, mainly,” the man continues. “Where are the documents?”

“Can’t answer that, sorry,” he wheezes. God, his arm hurts. “Ask a different one.”

The leader backhands him, knocking his head back into the tree. He blinks, dazed. “That seemed a bit excessive.”

“We’ve barely gotten started,” the man says, grim.

“Ah. I was afraid of that.”

Leader, or rather, Bastard, as Aramis has decided to call him, reaches out and presses on his injured arm. He’s shocked at the force of the scream that rips from his mouth as agony wracks through him.

Broken, then. Wonderful.

“Where are the documents?”

“We’ve been over this already. I. Won’t. Tell. You.”

“We can be very persuasive.”

“I’m sure.”

Bastard pushes down again, harder this time. Aramis screams as broken bones grind together. His vision flashes blinding white and then blackness descends.

 

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

**4 Days Earlier**

“That ‘im?” Porthos points across the tavern to a cloaked man seated in the corner.

“Most likely,” Athos drawls and leads the way over to the table. 

Aramis sits next to him, missing the comforting weight of the pauldron on his shoulder. The man had insisted they come out of uniform.

“Monsieur Rousseau? “ Athos asks once they’ve all settled.

The man nods without looking up, mostly hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat. Athos takes his reticence in stride—maybe sensing a kindred spirit.

“You have something for us?”

Rousseau slides a cylindrical container across the table. Athos arches an eyebrow, looking every inch a disdainful lord. “What is this?”

Rousseau leans forward, speaking in a hushed voice. “Documents that prove the Duke of Montmorency is raising militias. He plans to overthrow the crown.”

Athos’ other eyebrow joins the first. Rousseau pushes the container closer. “Take them, please. Bring them to the king. He must know of this. I will send more information when I’m able.”

Athos considers for a moment before picking up the cylinder and handing it to Aramis. He accepts it grudgingly, not pleased he’s been delegated to look after it—nor that Athos barely looked at him before handing off the duty.

He can’t wait to be back in Paris.

“Thank you for the information, Monsieur.” Athos tips his hat and stands. “We will look after it.”

They leave Rousseau to his drink. Aramis tries not to dread the long ride back to Paris, full of awkward silences and Athos’ judgmental glances whenever he and Porthos attempt to infuse humour into the dull monotony of riding all day.

The next week is going to be  _thrilling._

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

  **Present**

A thunderstorm wakes Aramis next. Which is a bit confusing, considering this isn’t the season for it. Also, the thunder sounds very, very close—too close to be coming from the sky.

He groans as he fumbles back towards consciousness, trying to regain his senses. Another clap of thunder booms and something slaps him in the face. He’s getting rather tired of that.

“…wake up,” a voice says, sounding like it’s calling across the sea to him. It’s also familiar.

With another low groan, he manages to force his eyes open and frowns at the sight of Athos crouched in front of him.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” He slurs, still disoriented. Athos shouldn’t be here and he would think himself hallucinating if not for the worry he can see on the other man’s face—aloof Athos has never looked at him like that.

 “A rescue,” Athos says as another volley of what now Aramis recognises as gunfire echoes. “Which is why you need to get up. We’re rather short on time.”

 He blinks, sluggish. Something’s wrong … “Porthos?”

 Athos nods his head towards the smoke drifting through the trees. “Providing cover. Can you stand?”

Standing. Yes. He’s sure he can force his limbs to do that. He shifts and then gasps when pain sears through his right side. “My … my arm…”

Athos’ eyes flick to it. “Broken, yes. Can you stand?”

Aramis feels a prick of offense at Athos’ callous manner, but one of the scouts chooses that moment to come charging out from the mist and smoke, sword flashing. Athos surges to meet him with surprising speed—as though he weren’t wounded in the slightest. Offense quickly warps into grudging admiration. Then Aramis realises he really should get up.

His head is clearing rapidly and alarm replaces the calm just as fast. Porthos is fighting at least four men on his own. Not bad odds, really, for Porthos, in terms of hand to hand—but these four have a lot more weaponry and they seem to be putting it to full use.

Turning away from where Athos is duelling the scout, Aramis gets his good arm under him and pushes himself slowly to his feet. His broken arm screams in protest and he nearly bites through the inside of his cheek keeping himself silent.

God, he hates broken bones—such a bloody inconvenience.

He’s upright, leaning against the tree for support and waiting for the dizziness to pass, when Athos finishes off the man with a powerful thrust through the stomach.

“Can you shoot?” He asks, stripping the man of his sword and pistol.

Aramis nods, extending his good arm to take the weapon. “Porthos?”

Athos shoves the sword through Aramis’ belt. “Like I said, distracting them. Don’t worry, there’s only two left.”

“Two?”

Athos nods. Aramis should be worried that his doublet and breeches are covered in blood, but decides to save that for when they’re safe. “We killed two before they had time to wake and the third is there.”

He tilts his head toward the dead man. Aramis feels cold, suddenly, down to his very bones. “You … you killed them in their sleep?”

“Yes,” Athos says with a touch of impatience. “Surprise was our only advantage. We used it. Now, are you coming?”

Aramis swallows and wills his hands to stop shaking. It was a necessity, killing the men that way, not slaughter. Not like _then._ “Yes, of course.”

He follows Athos further into the camp and avoids looking at the bodies still lying on their sleeping rolls. The gunfire has stopped and now there is simply the clash of swords coming from a nearby stand of trees. Athos makes no move to assist and instead begins gathering the men’s supplies—food, fresh weapons…

Aramis stands guard, broken arm hugged to his side. After a few moments, the swords fall silent. He takes a deep breath, fingers curling tighter around his stolen pistol. Please, let it be Porthos that emerges from the trees.

Once, he would have believed in Porthos’ victory no matter the odds, but he hasn’t had that kind of faith since Savoy. Not in anyone.

But it is _Porthos_ that appears and Aramis sends up a weak prayer of thanks. His friend is scowling and there’s blood on his clothes but he’s _alive_ and that’s more than enough.

“One of ‘em got away,” Porthos says as he reaches them. “’E’ll warn the others what happened.”

“We’ll be long gone by then.” Athos shoves the last of the supplies into a saddlebag and stands.

Porthos’ big hand curling around the back of his neck pulls Aramis’ attention away. He looks up at his friend and sees that familiar expression—all soft concern. “You alright?”

He almost says “yes” but then remembers that Porthos has always been able to see through him. “My arm’s broken.”

Porthos makes a distressed sound and goes as if to examine the appendage. Athos’ voice stops him. “We can set it as soon as we put some distance between us and this place. For now, we need to go.”

Porthos glares at him, but steps back—shoots an apologetic look at Aramis. “I don’t have any experience settin’ bones.”

“I do,” Athos says before Aramis can offer reassurance.

Does he? Interesting—another mystery to add to the enigma that is their companion.

Porthos touches his back in silent comfort and moves to help Athos with the saddlebags. They separate out two horses and let the others go, and then, before he’s entirely sure what’s happened, Aramis once again finds himself in front of a horse, trying to determine how to get into the saddle.

It’s going to be considerably harder this time.

“Porthos,” Athos says from near the other horse, “help Aramis. I will be fine.”

Aramis turns, ready to protest, but Athos has already stuck a foot in the stirrup and is pulling himself onto his horse. He nearly folds in half once he’s seated, clutching his wounded side, but he doesn’t fall. Aramis resolves to yell at him about careless regard for one’s own health later, along with asking about that blood.

Porthos crouches next to him into the snow, hands clasped together. “Step on.”

Sighing in quiet frustration at his own weakness, Aramis obeys and allows Porthos to give him a leg up into the saddle. It hurts, but it’s not quite the overwhelming agony he expected, and he’s wrestled it under control after a few deep breaths. Porthos climbs up behind him, as he had with Athos, but leaves the reins in Aramis’ hand—probably afraid to jostle his broken arm by reaching around him.

Thank God for Porthos.

Athos leads the way out of the camp, riding at a fast canter. Aramis braces himself and spurs his mount faster. At least if he starts to pass out, Porthos will be there to catch him, like always.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

They stop what feels like an eternity later, sheltered in the midst of several rock formations. It’s a good position—hidden from view, protected from the wind, and with a good line of sight in all directions. Aramis silently adds strategy and scouting to Athos’ growing list of talents.

It’s becoming an annoyingly long list—one that would be an asset in a musketeer but is a bit more … _worrying_ in a convicted murderer.

Porthos dismounts first and moves to Athos’ side, guided by some kind of intuition. He catches him as Athos’ feet hit the ground and his knees buckle. Aramis frowns, fighting down the instinct to help, especially when a low sound of pain escapes Athos. The wound is no doubt bleeding again from all the exertion of the past few hours.  To be honest, Aramis is amazed the man is still conscious.

“Thank you,” Athos says to Porthos once he’s regained his breath. “Once you’ve helped Aramis down, we need his sash for a sling.”

Porthos shakes his head, possibly in amusement, but leaves Athos leaning against his horse and returns to help Aramis.

Getting off the horse is somehow worse than getting on. By the time it’s over, he’s sagged pathetically against Porthos’ chest, panting and shaking.

“Easy, I got ya,” Porthos murmurs, an arm braced carefully around his waist. “Just breathe.”

“What are you talking about?” He wheezes. “I’m … perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, and I’m the king,” Porthos retorts.

Aramis chokes out a laugh. “I’ve always thought you were hiding something.”

He can’t see Porthos’ smile but he knows it’s there. “Alright, let’s get you settled.”

Aramis allows himself to be led and then lowered to the dirt and snow. Athos has already laid out a sleeping roll, he realises, so that his clothes don’t get too damp. He glances up at the man, focused on the blood spattered across his doublet.

“It’s not mine,” Athos says, apparently picking up on his unspoken worry. It’s strange, having someone read him like Porthos does. “At least, most of it isn’t.”

“I would yell at you,” Aramis huffs, “but I’m too tired.”

“Good,” Porthos says as he crouches in front of Aramis, reaching out to unbuckle his belt. “Once you get started it’s impossible to shut you up.”

Aramis glares, barely noticing Porthos unwinding his sash. “I wouldn’t have to yell so much if you were more careful.”

Athos arches an eyebrow. “I would point out the hypocrisy of your statement but it’s far too obvious to waste breath on.”

“I loathe you both,” Aramis announces—inwardly surprised at how easy the banter is flowing between the three of them.

Athos smirks, but it’s fleeting. “We need to set that arm.”

“You had to ruin it, didn’t you?” Aramis groans. Porthos squeezes his good arm.

“I need your bandana,” Athos tells Porthos—all blunt authority again. “And help getting his doublet off.”

Aramis braces, but it’s still _agony_ manoeuvring his broken arm out of the sleeve—bile surges in his throat and he barely clings to consciousness. When his arm is finally free, Athos casually leans back, giving Aramis room to retch into the snow. Omniscient bastard.

He can feel Porthos watching him, radiating concern, and tries his best to ignore it. He’s grown accustomed to the weight of his friend’s gaze over the past eight months, but worrying Porthos has never become easier to bear.

“We also need something to splint the arm.”

Porthos retreats, taking his worry with him, and Aramis is grateful.  He glances over to Athos and spots the sheen of sweat on his brow, in spite of the cold. “I need to check your wound, too.”

“I’m fine,” Athos insists.

“There is still a risk of infection. I need to make sure—”

“Will these do?” Porthos holds up a pair of fairly straight sticks. Ideally, Aramis would ask they be smoothed out with a blade but there isn’t time.

Athos nods, accepting the makeshift splints. “Please put the bandana in his mouth.”

“You want me to gag ‘im?” Porthos asks, indignant.

“He might bite through his tongue otherwise.”

“I—”

Aramis reaches out and manages to lay a weak hand on his arm. “Do as he says, _mon ami._ Please.”

Porthos reluctantly fits the cloth between his teeth.

“Hold him down,” Athos instructs next and Aramis feels hands on his chest and good shoulder. Athos glances at him with what could be sympathy and then begins.

Aramis clamps down on the gag as screams roar up his throat and the pain consumes him. The world blurs and fades in and out—he fights to hold onto consciousness because he’s worried Porthos enough for one day. But it’s a difficult battle and he’s not sure he completely manages, drifting away to the sound of Porthos’ murmured reassurances.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

When he next comes back to himself, it’s over and Athos is mopping his face with the bandana.

“I … hope you … cleaned that,” he gasps out, chest still heaving.

“Dunked it in the snow a bit,” Porthos says from his other side. “Should be clean enough.”

He would laugh, if he weren’t still in so much pain. “Did those men … have any wine?”

“Sadly not.” Athos sounds truly regretful. “I checked.”

Damn. That would have certainly helped.

He sighs and reaches a hand toward Porthos. “Help me up.”

To his surprise, Porthos only obeys when Athos gives a nod of assent. Well, he supposes Athos has shown fairly good medical knowledge regarding this and Porthos has never trusted Aramis with his own injuries—anyone else’s to be sure, but never his.

He groans once he’s upright and takes a few long, even breaths through his nose to orient himself. His sash is wrapped around his arm and shoulder in a makeshift sling and upon closer inspection, he sees Athos has set and splinted the bones well.

“Where did you learn to do this?” He asks, genuinely curious—healing is not a skill convicted murderers tend to cultivate. Athos shrugs. Aramis forces back another sigh and gestures with his good hand. “Never mind. Come here. I need to look at your wound.”

“Shouldn’t you be restin’?” Porthos asks as he drapes Aramis’ cloak over him to ward off the cold. “I can check it. I know what infection looks like.”

“Porthos is right,” Athos adds. “You should rest.”

“So should you,” Aramis points out and he would protest further, but Porthos has his stubborn face on and that means he won’t be winning this fight—better to bow out now. “But fine. You should clean the wound, too.”

He settles back against the rock, then, and watches Athos extract himself from his cloak and doublet. There’s fresh blood on the bandages when Porthos lifts Athos’ shirt to check, but no signs of infection, Porthos reports. He removes the old bandages and cleans the wound with fresh snow, calm and precise—just like Aramis taught him. Athos bears it with his usual silent stoicism and Aramis stares at the brand and the whip scars and _wonders._

Once Porthos has rebound the wound, they split some more of the food and curl up for the night, huddled close together against the cold—Athos once again in the middle.

This time, Aramis is the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry. For getting myself caught. It was a stupid mistake.”

“It’s fine. Just don’t scare me like that again,” Porthos says.

Aramis wishes he could promise that he won’t. Instead, he turns his attention to Athos and asks the question that has been burning in the back of his mind for almost two days. “Did you do it?”

Athos is quiet for a long time. Then, a whispered, broken, “No.” Another pregnant pause. “Though I might as well have. I refused to listen to him until it was too late. And I did attempt to hang my wife.”

“Why?” Aramis presses, though he suspects the answer.

This time, he doesn’t have to wait as long. “Because she was the one who killed my brother.”

Aramis hears Porthos suck in a sharp breath. Athos continues with none of his usual aloof confidence. “Do you believe me?”

Aramis thinks about the brand and Athos offering to stay behind and the way his voice cracked on the word “no” and doesn’t have an answer.

“Yes,” Porthos says, firm.

Aramis can feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Porthos has always been a terrible judge of character—too quick to trust the wrong people. But … maybe not this time.

“Why were you convicted?” He asks in lieu of an answer.

“It was her revenge,” Athos whispers, still achingly vulnerable. “For ordering her death.”

“You should go to the king,” Porthos insists. “Maybe ‘e would grant you a pardon.”

“No. She has powerful allies and I have no evidence against her. I am the one that bears the mark—my innocence would not be believed over hers. At best I would be executed for treason. At worst…”

He trails off. Once again, Aramis wishes he could see his face in the dark. “At worst?”

Athos lets out a shuddering exhale. “There are things I cannot live through again.”

He shifts, then, curling up, and Aramis senses the conversation is over for now. He lies awake for a long time, trying to pass a verdict on the man beside him.

By the time his eyes finally drift closed, he only has more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun fact (because I love history at bit too much, probably) the Duke of Montmorency, head of the province of Languedoc, which bordered Gascony in southeastern France, actually did rebel against Louis XIII. He was defeated and beheaded at the orders of Cardinal Richelieu in, uh, 1632. Yeah. Just ignore that part. I figure I get some creative license since the show has already fudged historical timelines (assuming the dauphin is the future Louis XIV.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kindness of strangers and the wrath of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all ROCK. That's all I have to say.

A strange sound wakes him and he reaches immediately for his sword. The night is weakening, starting the slow fade into morning, and beyond their little alcove snow is falling anew.

The sound comes again—a muffled cry.

Porthos is awake now, too, dagger in a hand. Realisation hits them together— _Athos._

Aramis glances down in time to see their companion twist in his sleep, another choked sound slipping free—half sob, half whimper. Fear plunges a knife into Aramis’ belly.

“Porthos,” he rasps, but his friend his already moving, working off his glove and putting a hand on Athos’ sweaty forehead.

“No fever,” he declares quietly and Aramis slumps in relief. Nightmares and ghosts they can handle—they kill much more slowly than fever or infection.

Athos flinches away from Porthos’ hand, curling up in a ball that is undoubtedly aggravating his wounded side, and sobs again. It sounds heartbreakingly close to the word, “no.” Porthos shares a sad look with Aramis—the ache in his chest reflected back from Porthos’ eyes—and gives Athos a firm shake.

Nothing. Athos only thrashes more wildly.

They need to wake him up—before the gash on his side starts bleeding again. Porthos clearly has the same idea because he takes a deep breath and slaps Athos hard across the face.

That does the trick.

Athos jerks awake and scrambles backwards until he slams into the rock wall behind them, dagger drawn. Then the pain hits like a punch and Aramis helplessly watches him gasp loud and clutch his side. The blade falls from limp fingers as Athos shakes, overwhelmed and miserable.

Aramis can sympathise—he’s freezing and hungry and his arm burns like the ninth circle of hell. Christ, what he wouldn’t give to be back in Paris. Or even for a bottle of wine. Well, several bottles of wine. At least.

“You back with us?” Porthos asks, and that achingly gentle tone is another familiar thing. How many times has he asked Aramis that question in the past eight months?

Athos nods without looking up. “My apologies. I did not mean to be a disturbance.”

Aramis wants to tell him to shut up because this, at least, will never be his fault. Ghosts can be vicious—angry that you’re still breathing while they are not—and he’s spent his own share of nights lost in the torment of dreams,  _memories,_ waking with screams scraping his throat raw.

He’s ready to say all of that, but Porthos beats him to it. “’S not your fault.” He looks like he wants to move closer to Athos, comfort him, because Porthos has always been a natural protector, but he holds himself back. “Scars like yours … they don’t heal easy. Or fast.”

Athos blinks at him for a long moment, clearly surprised. He looks vulnerable,  _young,_ with all these holes in his mask, his walls crumbling. It twists something deep in Aramis’ chest that he has no name for.

“No,” Athos murmurs, rueful and sad. “They do not.”

_There are things I cannot live through again._

Maybe they are more alike than Aramis first realised. He doesn’t have the energy to dwell now, though. Clears his throat softly instead. Porthos and Athos turn as one to look at him and the matching expressions of curiosity on their faces sharpens that strange ache.

“The sun will be up soon. Since, I for one, have no desire to go back to sleep, maybe we should pack up camp?”

Athos nods, looking glad for the distraction, and Aramis can see the cracks stitching up. “Good idea.” He reaches for his dagger again and then crawls past Aramis and Porthos into the falling snow.

He also sways on his feet when he stands, one hand still pressed over his wound, but Aramis bites down on his worry.  There is nothing to be done, anyway—they must simply endure.

“Here,” Porthos says from his side—one large, comforting hand spread across his back, “let me help you up.”

Yes, Aramis thinks as he accepts the offer, thank God for Porthos.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

 

**4 Days Earlier**

“How did we not see this comin’?”

It’s a valid question, Aramis thinks as he ducks back behind his meagre cover, but one he doesn’t have time to answer. There are far too many people shooting at them.

Apparently, the Duke of Montmorency knows about the documents and is not pleased. His way of expressing this displeasure is to ambush them with a small army—which at least proves the validity of the documents.

So much for a week of boredom.

Aramis grins, leaning out to knock an oncoming rider form his horse with a perfect shot.

He doesn’t mind. With Porthos at his side and his harquebus in his hands, he feels almost invincible—something he hasn’t experienced since Savoy. Even though they’ve lost sight of Athos and his horse went down in the first round of fire, he thinks they’ll be all right.

“Well you needed the target practice,  _mon ami,”_ he calls to Porthos as he reloads.

Porthos laughs, shaking his head. Aramis smirks back and lands another hit. Right before he pulls back into cover, he sees Athos duelling with two men. If practices at the garrison are anything to go on, that’s child’s play for him.

They’ve been at this for half an hour and already halved the enemy’s forces.

Yes, they’re going to be all right.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

  **Present**

The day passes in flickers of awareness, as if time is skipping forward in small bursts, and he’s almost thankful. In this strange haze of snow and grey sky and bitter cold, the pain is distant and dulled—manageable—so he doesn’t fight it, lets it take him where it will.

The flickers have no rhyme or reason, but he finds himself captivated by their detail—the splash of hooves through icy water, the sway of bare branches, the bend of Athos’ shoulders, the steam of Porthos’ breath hovering near his cheek, the creak of his gloves as he tightens his grip on the reins.

It’s beautiful, in a way.

The woods have swallowed them again when the next flicker comes—the faint crunch of Athos’ body hitting the snow. Porthos curses and Aramis finally claws his way out of the haze, sensing that this is more important than any of the other flashes. He twists his Porthos’ arms as much as he broken arm will allow—it’s enough to see Athos on the ground, a dark corpse against the white of the snow— _no, wait that isn’t right this isn’t Savoy – different woods, these are different woods—_

“…wait here,” Porthos is saying and Aramis buries his fingers in his horse’s mane to keep himself steady as Porthos dismounts.

Then, all he can do is watch—all his oxygen trapped in his ribcage, drowned by his thundering heart—as Porthos crouches beside Athos and checks his pulse.

“’E’s alive, just passed out, the stubborn idiot,” Porthos calls and the air whooshes out in one heaving exhale of bitter relief.

Thank  _Christ._

“We can’t stop, though,” Porthos continues, grim. “They’ve been gainin’ on us for the past hour.”

“You could always—”

“Shut up.”

“It would be our best—”

“Shut  _up.”_

Aramis glares, knowing it’ll be ignored but needing to try anyway, as Porthos begins undoing Athos’ belt. “What’s your plan, then?”

“I need your belt.”

“That didn’t answer my question,” Aramis gripes even as he lifts his arm so Porthos can unbuckle the belt and slide it from his waist.

“I’m gonna lash ‘im to the saddle,” Porthos explains, removing his own belt and setting it in the snow next to the others. “We won’t be able to go fast but at least we’re movin’ this way. We can find shelter and hide out.”

It’s a terrible idea, but Aramis doesn’t have a better one so he nods and does his best to keep a lookout while Porthos hauls Athos back onto the horse and binds his hands and waist to the saddle. It’s oddly terrifying, seeing Athos limp and unresponsive—like a sack of flesh instead of a living and breathing person and Aramis curses himself for caring so damn  _much._ It’s always been a weakness he can’t get rid of.

Porthos guides Athos’ horse over to Aramis' and clambers back into the saddle, clutching the reins tightly in one hand. “I’m pretty sure we’ve crossed into Limousin. Head northeast. Think there might be some farms that way.”

“We agreed we wouldn’t endanger any civilians.”

Porthos nudges their horse forward. “I know. We aren’t gonna hide there. Just need a place to stash the horses.” A smirk. “Can’t think of anywhere better than a barn, can you?”

Aramis chuckles weakly, shaking his head. His end is most likely waiting for him somewhere in these cursed, white woods, but he won’t be alone. He’s not sure whether to take comfort from that.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Aramis watches over Athos—still unconscious, which he’s trying and failing not to worry too much about—while Porthos sneaks the horses down into the unsuspecting farmer’s barn to conceal them amongst the other mounts.  Hopefully, their pursuers will think them too desperate to stop and ride on.

Hopefully.

Porthos returns, then, saving him from pessimistic introspection about being hunted like bloody animals, and they continue deeper into the woods—Athos slung over Porthos’ back with ease, as if he were a lightweight ragdoll.

“When we get back to Paris I’m makin’ sure ‘e eats more,” Porthos declares as they walk.

“So you’re not turning him in, then?”

“Are you?”

He avoids Porthos’ sharp gaze, shrugging.

“Aramis—”

“Later, Porthos.”

They continue on in stifled silence.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

He’s beginning to suspect their enemies possess some kind of psychic ability, or possibly the powers of hell itself, because how  _else_ would they be able to follow so closely?

At least they didn’t find the horses, he thinks as he shifts further out of sight—a small, pathetic consolation for their current situation: trapped with the enemy circling like hungry vultures. It’s another scouting party of five, but even such meagre numbers are beyond their capacity now, as wounded and exhausted as they are, and all they can do is huddle down further into the thick forest undergrowth and hope they aren’t seen.

Of course—of _bloody_ _ course _ _—_ Athos chooses this  _exact moment_ to wake up, stirring in Porthos’ arms and letting out a faint groan. Porthos claps a hand over his mouth before any further sounds can escape, but it’s still enough to turn the scouts’ heads.  Awake, but disoriented and probably terrified, Athos thrashes, trying to escape. Porthos’ fingers dig into Athos’ cheeks and he pulls him closer, preventing any movement.

Aramis meets Athos’ wide, half-wild blue eyes and holds a finger up to his lips.

Understanding dawns, mercifully, and Athos sags in Porthos’ grip. Porthos waits a breath, two, before slowly removing his hand and in the woods beyond, one of the scouts steps closer. Aramis flattens himself further against the earth—cheek pressed into damp dirt and snow and arm pulsing hard enough to make his teeth grit against it.

Another step.

All of them wait, tense and curled up close until the lines between them blur into one large mass.

Another step. The scout is almost on top of them.

Porthos is a steady weight along his side and he can feel Athos’ soft, stuttering breath against his neck. He closes his eyes and waits for the discovery, the shouts, the failure, the  _end._

One of the others shouts something. The scout glances towards him, then back to their hiding place. A beat. Two three four he turns back to his horse. Mounts.

And rides into the trees with the others.

They remain in their hiding place, listening, listening—to the hum of the earth as the horses retreat, to the silence blanketed behind it, thick and heavy. Aramis opens his eyes and coaxes his lungs through a breath. Inhale, exhale, again—they’re gone.

He’s shaking and Athos gasps a sob or a laugh into his skin—a wet, congealing sound. He can hear the air rattling from Porthos’ mouth on his other side and he rolls on his back to stare up through the holes in the shrubs to the slate sky, still rickety and precarious down to his bones.

God—Christ, that was…

“That was too close,” Porthos whispers and Athos nods in agreement, sharing Aramis’ own hysterical thoughts.

He moves to sit up—freezing from where snow has soaked into his clothes and wounds stiff—but Athos’ hand clamps down on his leg.

“Not yet. We need to make sure they don’t circle back.”

Right. Yes, that would be good.

He lies back down with a small groan. Shivers are wracking his body but at least his broken arm, cradled in the sling against his chest, has remained mostly numb. Porthos shifts closer, body heat like a wonderful furnace, and he can feel Athos doing the same on his other side—blindly seeing warmth, shivering, too, hard enough his teeth audibly clack together. It’s easy to shift, rest his head against Athos’ in silent comfort—to forget the brand and the unanswered questions and the walls still between them.

Here, with the end looming, none of it seems to matter quite so much.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

The blue of twilight has settled and they stand huddled together at the edge of the farm, shaking down to their boots from the cold—even Porthos’ copious amounts of body heat have evaporated. There is light spilling out of the distant farmhouse and Aramis can feel the prospective warmth drawing him in.

Still. “Are we sure about this?”

He glances at Athos and Porthos.  There was a rather impassioned argument in the woods—barely ten minutes ago—as the two of them clashed over the next course of action and Aramis tried to decide whose side to take, off-balance still by the addition of Athos to their previously two-man cell.

In the end, Athos won, and here they are.

“Yes,” Athos murmurs and Aramis is once again impressed by his ability to sound aristocratic even through pain and chattering teeth.  “We’re couriers for the king and we were ambushed and robbed.”

“We’ll need to find a way to pay ‘em back for this,” Porthos says, adjusting his hat. “Especially if those men return.”

“They won’t,” Athos replies, confident. “They think we continued north. We should be safe for a night.”

Not to mention they’ll probably die of exposure if they sleep outside another night. That had been the argument that sealed Athos’ victory—a rather low blow, really, playing on Porthos’ protective nature, but a logical one. 

“If we’re ready, gentlemen?” Aramis asks, archly. He’s  _cold_ and starving and he’s tired of standing around arguing.

Porthos lays a heavy hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Remember, we leave at first light.”

Because the men will eventually notice if there’s no sign of them and double back—that had been Porthos’ main point of reasoning.

Athos nods and together they shuffle towards the farmhouse. It’s Athos who knocks and the farmer’s wife who answers and Aramis instantly knows they’ll be offered shelter, watching her face go from surprise to sympathy in less than five seconds as she takes in Athos’ dishevelled state and suddenly too-big blue eyes.

It’s strange, seeing  _Athos_ pull off such a good kicked puppy impression—under any other circumstances, he would be laughing his head off.

“My apologies, madame,” Athos says, leaning against the doorframe for support. That, Aramis, suspects isn’t an act, “but my companions and I were ambushed by bandits and wounded. Would we be able to shelter here for a night? We promise to be gone by morning.”

“Of course,” the woman says, gesturing them inside, “of course, come in.”

She shouts for her husband and Aramis nearly weeps as he stumbles across the threshold into the warmth of the house. It feels like years since they left the tavern in Lodève.

“This is heaven, Porthos,” he whispers.

Porthos laughs under his breath in response and then they’re suddenly swept up into a flurry of activity as the farmer appears. When Aramis is next fully aware, he’s sitting in fresh clothes in front of the fire with a bowl of stew in his lap and their hosts—Madame and Monsieur Beaulac, if he remembers correctly—fluttering around bringing blankets and bandages.

Yes, heaven, indeed.

Next to him, Athos looks small nestled under a large blanket and eats like he’ll never see food again. It’s a rather appalling lack of manners, for what he knows of Athos, but he isn’t about to lay blame when it’s an effort to keep his own bites slow and measured.

This is the best stew he’s ever tasted in his life and Madame Beaulac laughs when he tells her so. She also has wine and he’s fairly sure she’s an angel. Athos drowns his first cup in one long gulp, then seems to remember himself and doesn’t ask for another, though he eyes the bottle with barely disguised longing. Here in the candlelight, Aramis can see his fractures again—clear in the quiver of his hands and the bow of his head, the gaze he keeps firmly focussed on the table.

He’d insisted on changing in private, Aramis now remembers, and he’d asked for a scarf to tie around his neck. The farmer had kindly handed one over without question and now it’s almost stranger to see the brand covered than exposed. He wonders if he’ll eventually forget it’s there.

Unlikely.

“We’re sorry to trouble you further,” Porthos says, finishing up his second helping of stew, “but have you got a needle ‘n thread?” He nods to Athos. “My friend’s wound needs stitchin.’”

Right, he’d almost forgotten that, too.

Madame Beaulac nods and returns with the requested items, waving off Porthos’ profuse thanks and offering them all more food, which they politely decline.

“Not here,” Athos murmurs as she turns away and it sounds more like a plea than a demand. Porthos squeezes his arm—the same reassuring gesture he’s extended to Aramis dozens of times over the years—and nods in understanding.

Together, they bid the Beaulacs good night, and drag themselves upstairs to the spare room, once home to the couple’s two sons who left to join the army a few years ago and never returned. Aramis suspects the clothes they’re all wearing belonged to them and makes a note to treat the items with care—giving up pieces of your ghosts to strangers is never easy.

Porthos pulls up a chair and Athos sinks down, taking the blanket from his shoulders.

“I can fetch more wine,” Porthos offers as he helps Athos out of his shirt and the scarf and it’s a surprise when Athos shakes his head.

“No. I couldn’t—I might not be able to—” He chokes on the rest of the words, but Aramis understands. 

_I might not be able to stop._

Porthos hears, too, and moves on, carefully unwrapping the blood-splattered bandages around Athos’ torso. Aramis kneels next to Athos’ chair to inspect the wound. It’s turning an angry red around the edges, the beginnings of infection, and it’s barely closed at all, but it’s not fatal—not yet.

“I’ll get some water,” Porthos says and his boots thunk loudly on the stairs as he descends.

“We should try to splint your arm better, too,” Athos mumbles, eyes closed.

Aramis glances up at him, surprised by his continued concern. “I’m fine. The bones are still set.”

“Still, let me look at it. Just to be sure. The Beaulacs might have some better wood to use for splints.”

“Alright,” Aramis relents, feeling both touched and amused at Athos’ persistence.  “If it’ll make you feel better.”

Athos opens his eyes and graces Aramis with a faint, tremulous smile. “It will.”

Porthos returns, then, with a bucket of water and a cloth. Aramis swallows around the sudden ache in his chest and forces himself to focus on the task at hand.

It’s Porthos who washes the wound—thorough, making sure to get any possible traces of dirt and fibre out, even if it requires dipping into the raw, open skin—and Athos shakes through it, fingers digging bruises into Aramis’ good shoulder. Once that unpleasant task is over, they shift—Porthos threading the needle then taking Athos’ hand. Athos glances down in open surprise and Porthos smiles in response to his questioning look.

The ache sharpens when Aramis realises that Athos is stunned at the easy comfort Porthos is offering.

“Keep him steady, Porthos,” he says as he begins.

It’s awkward and clumsy and Porthos should probably be doing this, now that he thinks about it. He looks up to say so, only—Athos’ head hangs low, hair falling in his eyes, and Porthos has rested his forehead against Athos’ temple, whispering soft encouragement to him—and Aramis swallows back his words, the ache a _knife._ Right here, in this moment, Athos _belongs_ and he doesn’t know what to do with that—returns to stitching up the wound instead because it’s easier than sorting out the mess of emotions knotted up inside.

He leans back on his heels once he’s finally finished and lets Porthos wrap fresh bandages—torn from what he suspects are the Beaulacs spare bedclothes—around Athos’ middle.

“Your arm,” Athos rasps as soon as Porthos is done and God, Aramis hasn’t felt this off-balance in _months._

“Later,” he replies, voice thick, and believes Athos’ innocence without a shred of doubt, for the first time since his whispered confession. “You should rest now.”

Athos looks ready to protest further, but Porthos puts a hand on the back of his neck—fingers brushing the brand—and squeezes gently. “’E’s right. You’re shakin’. Lie down for a bit, then we’ll handle Aramis’ arm.”

Athos frowns and Porthos helps him up from the chair, guiding him to one of the two beds. “I want to do it before we leave.”

“We will,” Porthos soothes and Aramis is acutely reminded of the immediate aftermath of Savoy and Porthos’ steady, calming presence—a natural nurturer, Porthos is, and somehow Treville _knew,_ made sure it was Porthos tasked with gently, persistently, carefully extracting Aramis from the pit of despair he’d crawled into.

Aramis doubts he’ll ever stop being thankful for Porthos’ presence in his life.

Porthos finishes getting Athos settled and then levies a stern look at Aramis. “You too. Bed. I’ll take the floor. No arguments.”

Aramis snaps his mouth closed with an annoyed huff, but he knows when to pick his battles—climbs into bed and shuts his eyes as Porthos blows out the candles, stokes the fire in the hearth, and settles down on the floor. It’s hard, finding a comfortable position, and his arm is a vexingly constant pain, but exhaustion sinks its claws in and drags him under quickly.

He’s wrenched awake an indeterminable time later by a piercing sound, echoing through the room. After a moment, he realises it’s a human voice and another moment after that determines the source.

Athos is screaming.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That which is necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe we're halfway there, folks. Hope you enjoy and thank you, everyone, for your continued support and interest in my humble little story.

Athos is _screaming._

Like he’s on fire, like he’s  _dying,_ like he’s watching the world end.

Athos is screaming and Aramis doesn’t know what to do. It’s Porthos who moves as he sits there frozen on the bed, watching Athos thrash with wide eyes. He’s distantly aware of the door opening and their startled hosts hovering on the threshold, but the rest of him is consumed with Porthos’ hands on Athos’ shoulders, gripping tight enough to anchor—tight enough to bruise.

But not tight enough to bring Athos back from whatever hell he’s trapped in.

Porthos’ hands move to Athos’ face, cupping his cheeks. Aramis frees himself of his blankets and creeps closer, strangely transfixed. Is this what he looked like after Savoy—wild with grief and memory and nightmare?

“Athos,” Porthos is saying, firm and calm in the face of the other man’s hurricane. “Wake up, it’s just a dream.”

Athos’ eyes open but they’re empty and unseeing, focussed on the past, and the first sob claws its way free from somewhere deep in Athos’ chest—strong enough to shake his whole body. Aramis can feel his heart start to bleed at the awful, broken sound.

Then the words come. “I’m sorry,” Athos’ gasps. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Porthos asks, still holding on.

“I killed them, I killed them, I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry.” There are tears on Athos’ cheeks and he’s tearing apart along all of his edges and Aramis wishes he knew what to  _do._

“What’s wrong?” Madame Beaulac whispers fearfully from the doorway and Aramis finds his purpose.

Forcing on his most charming smile, he turns to the distraught couple and starts to herd them from the room. “Our apologies for disturbing your sleep. He has night terrors, but they usually are not this severe. Comes from his soldiering days. Lots of bad memories, I’m afraid.”

Madame Beaulac’s eyes are soft in horrible understanding and Aramis tries not to feel transparent under her gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Aramis shakes his head. “No. It should pass soon. Please do not trouble yourselves.”

They look doubtful, but retreat back downstairs. Aramis closes the door behind them. On the bed, Athos is still breaking—the mask shredded and the walls dust—while Porthos tries to drag him free from the ghosts.

“I’m sorry,” he’s still saying, over and over like a chant, a prayer. “I killed them, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Porthos insists. “It’s over. You need to come back to us.”

“I murdered them,” Athos hiccups. “All of them, I’m so sorry. There was no other way. I had to keep them safe.”

The words trail like icy fingers down Aramis’ spine and he’s not sure he ever wants to know what Athos is talking about. It must be a memory worthy of the depths of hell to invoke such  _despair_ in Athos’ voice.

He doesn’t want to hear any more.

It’s this desire that propels him back across the room, pushing Porthos aside and grabbing the front of Athos’ shirt. Mindful of the stitches, he gives him a small shake. “Enough. Like Porthos said, it’s  _over._ You’re with us now and we need you, so  _wake up.”_

Athos trembles, staring at something over Aramis’ shoulder that only he can see. Aramis grits his teeth in frustration and, resorting to drastic measures, punches him,  _hard._ His head whips to the side and he chokes on a shocked breath, jolting back to the present. Aramis can feel the moment he wakes up—the tension that knots his spine and the clench of his jaw—the mask being cobbled back together.

The walls coming up.

Aramis lets go and sinks down onto the bed. His own hand is trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Athos murmurs and both Aramis and Porthos flinch. “I should have warned you.”

“This has happened before?” Porthos asks quietly, even though the answer is obvious.

Athos wipes a hand across his face, smearing away the lingering remnants of his tears, and smiles at them, bitter and jagged. “There is a reason I drink as much as I do.”

Enough to pass out every night, enough to keep from _dreaming_ —Aramis understands, then, and it _hurts._ God it hurts.

Porthos shakes his head and leans in, pulling Athos back into his arms. Athos makes a small, overwhelmed sound that would be amusing under different circumstances—Porthos seems to have an innate ability to throw the normally composed man off-balance.

“You should’ve said somethin’,” Porthos admonishes. “No one should face stuff like this alone.”

Aramis feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He can easily close his eyes and hear _you’re not alone why do you keep actin’ like you are?_ Oh, Porthos—too good for all of them.

Athos takes a shuddering breath and pulls away, folding himself up against the wall. He glances at Aramis, cautious, and Aramis can still see all of the fault-lines and fissures. “There are things too broken for anyone to fix.”

“Maybe,” Porthos agrees, “but you ain’t one of ‘em.”

Athos looks overwhelmed again and almost without thought, Aramis curls his good hand over Athos' bent knee. “You should listen to Porthos, _mon ami._ He’s very good with broken things.”

Athos chokes on a breath and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t … if you knew…”

“So tell us,” Porthos urges, shifting closer.

Athos shakes his head again, harder. “You’ll see it soon. I am not human, merely a monster masquerading as one.”

Aramis thinks of Athos’ weeping confessions of murder and feels that chill again—icy breath against his skin.

Porthos glances at him. _Steady_ and _you alright?_ and _don’t run from this, he needs us._

Aramis swallows and shifts, settling in on Athos’ other side, so that he’s braced between him and Porthos. “I have seen monsters, Athos,even ones pretending to be men, and you are not one of them.”

“I have so much blood on my hands,” Athos whispers in a small, shattered voice.

Aramis closes his eyes and thinks of Savoy, of bodies in the snow and red on white and the raiders who killed without thought or remorse, butchering honest men where they slept—and him, the _last,_ the _living,_ unable to fight or stop Marsac from fleeing into the arms of his demons, thinking that he might as well have wielded the sword himself for how little he did to help any of his brothers. 

“We all do.” He puts his hand over Athos’ trembling one. “Blood and dirt and ghosts—I’m used to all of these, _mon ami.”_

“None of us come without a past,” Porthos adds. “And startin’ now you ain’t alone. Friends help a hell of a lot better than wine.”

That coaxes a brittle smile to Athos’ mouth. He does not believe them, Aramis can tell, but he’s not going to argue with them and that’s a victory, however small. Healing, he has learned, is a process often composed of seemingly miniscule steps forward—one at a time, until you finally begin to feel the change.

“Thank you,” Athos murmurs after a moment of silence.

Aramis and Porthos smile in wordless reassurance and they remain there, pressed together on the bed—side by side by side, backs to the cool wall—and Aramis thinks that this is the start of something. Something big. Vast. _Life changing._

Now, all they have to do is survive to experience it.

Outside, the sun begins to rise, reflecting off the snow.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

**4** **Days Earlier**

“They’re sendin’ in reinforcements!”

Aramis looks up from the body of the man he just killed, alarmed. The clearing is a sea of bodies and a few yards away, Athos leans against a tree, clutching his bleeding side. Porthos is at the edge of the trees, eyes on the fields of white.

Aramis tightens his grip on his sword and tries to ignore the pain in his shoulder. “How many?”

“A dozen at least,” Porthos says, turning back to them, and there is  _fear_ in his eyes, unchecked and raw enough to cut through Aramis’ pretences of calm.

 “We need to run,” Athos says when it’s clear all of Aramis’ words have dried up. “Now.”

 “All the horses're dead! We’ll be dead before we make it a mile.” And Aramis knows how much Porthos hates running—better a fight, a last stand, a fitting end than fleeing like a coward, but Aramis doesn’t want to die in the snow surrounded by bodies. That is a fate he was supposed to have escaped eight months ago.

Athos gives Porthos a withering look, packing almost impressive amounts of disdain and disappointment into a single expression that Aramis (and most likely Porthos, going by the sudden tension in his posture) would love to punch from his face, and starts to walk away—deeper into the woods.

“Arrogant bugger,” Porthos grumbles and stalks after him.

Aramis glances out to the fields and the black dots on the horizon steadily growing larger and follows them into the trees.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

**Present**

Pale winter light dances with dust particles in front of the window as Aramis takes the chair to let Athos examine his arm. Porthos is downstairs making preparations and occasionally his voice drifts up the stairs, mixing with the Beaulacs as they no doubt bury him beneath food and supplies.

Godsends, these people.

“It looks good,” Athos says, sounding surprised—which Aramis supposes is justified, considering the week they’ve been having. “Nothing has shifted. Miraculously.”

“Well, we do deserve some good to even out all the bad.”

Athos puts new splints on his arm. “If only life always carried such balance.” His tone is wry, but still full of barely-masked cracks—his hands though, are completely steady as he ties off the improvised sling.

Yes,” Aramis murmurs, feeling quiet—almost at peace, here in this house miles from anywhere with Athos crouched next to him and the sun spilling in.  “It would certainly make things easier.”

Athos hums in agreement and stands—slow, mindful of his wound, but with nary a wince. The scarf is back around his neck and he looks closer to the man he was at the beginning of this mess. Aramis doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t know the right words to keep Athos from retreating back behind the safety of his impregnable walls.

So he lets the quiet linger until Porthos returns and it’s time to say goodbye.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

The Beaulacs make them promise to be safe and they all lie through their teeth as they promise to send word when they’ve reached Paris.

Then it’s back in the saddle, surrounded by accursed snow and trees that never seem to end, and it feels almost as if last night was a strange dream. There has been no sign of their pursuers, but Aramis still feels on edge, starting at shadows, and—in his less lucid moments—wondering if maybe the trees themselves are watching—eyes buried deep in their bark tracking everything that dares move through the forest.

Or maybe, they’re full of ghosts wandering through the clearings and hollows, screaming for the blood of those who escaped unscathed—their wounds still dripping red into the snow.

He shudders and pulls his hat lower over his eyes, leaning back into Porthos’ warmth.

It’s too quiet.

“What are you gentlemen going to do when we get back to Paris?”

“Drink,” Athos answers immediately—the deadpan drawl back his voice. It doesn’t grate like it used to. Now, Aramis has to fight off an amused smile.

“No, you’re gonna rest,” Porthos declares and Aramis can feel his glare on the back of his neck. “Both of ya.”

“And what will you do, Porthos?” He asks, teasing. “Play nurse?”

Porthos huffs. “Nah, done enough of that already. I owe Dujon a rematch.”

“Dujon?” Athos asks and so much has changed over the past few days, that Aramis is shocked to remember it hasn’t always been this way - that before this, Athos had no presence in their lives. 

“Red guard,” Porthos says with a grin. “As stupid as a hunk of stone, but not bad at cards. Even if I usually win.”

Aramis elbows Porthos gently in the stomach, losing the battle to keep a smile at bay. “Because you cheat.”

“Eh, he’s a red guard. It’s required. And it’s ‘is fault for bein’ too dumb to notice.”

A glance at Athos reveals that he’s smiling, as well—a tiny, amused thing that still manages to breathe some warmth into Aramis’ chest and bones.

They continue to chat about idle, pointless things, even managing to coax some information out of Athos—he trained in swords as a boy, his brother was the favourite, but Athos never minded, his parents are long dead, he dislikes sweet things, and he’s not a terrible cook—and the paranoia begins to fade.

Like this, Aramis can almost believe that they’ll make it.

Naturally, that’s when the blizzard sets in.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

The whole damn world is  _white—_ as far as the eye can see and the wind is vicious, tugging at their clothes and digging sharp claws into their skin. He bends his body against it and pushes forward one haggard step at a time, though he’s not sure if he’s  _actually_ moving forward or just slipping and sliding in place because he can’t see anything but  _white._

God, he  _hates_ snow.

Next to him, Porthos and Athos lead the horses, trying to keep them calm in the face of the howling wind. Above their heads, branches sway and crack ominously and Aramis has to admit that he never thought he would actually die buried beneath snow. Shot, maybe, or frozen to death in the night but not  _this._

Another step. Two three four five—a branch snaps free, plummeting to the earth and Athos’ horse shies away in fright.

Athos turns, tries to soothe it, but more branches break— _crack crack **crack—**_ and the horse rears, wrenching the reins free from Athos’ already weakened grip, and galloping off into the storm. Porthos keeps a tight grip on his own horse as Athos slogs forward, shouting after the beast with something akin to desperation.

Aramis feels a sinking in his gut. In this terrain the horse will probably slip and fall within a few minutes, breaking something or dying on impact—they should bid it goodbye now. Athos stumbles to a stop, one hand on a nearby tree for support, and yells—loud, frustrated, unrestrained. Even that sound is snatched by the wind the moment it leaves Athos’ lips.

One horse. They’re down to one horse.

Hysterical laughter is bubbling up his throat but he gallantly swallows it back. Now is probably not the time.

“We need shelter!” Porthos shouts. “Now!”

Or they risk losing the other horse, or freezing to death, suffocated by snow.

Athos pushes away from the tree and stumbles back to them, breathing heavy. “Where?”

Aramis cannot see anything promising—just white and the grey blur of trees—but Porthos keeps walking, leading them deeper into the forest where the trees clump closer and the wind doesn’t have as much room to move.

It still howls, deafening, as they stagger to a stop in front of a large tree—its trunk is knotted and massive, far more ancient than the rest of the forest, maybe even the kingdom itself, and its branches stretch out wide, tangling with other nearby trees. It’s not a cave or building, barely adequate against the wind but.

It will have to do.

Porthos ties the horse to one of the jutting roots that snakes its way across the forest floor and they curl up at the base of the tree—faces buried in their cloaks, sleeping rolls pulled over them, and bodies pressed together for warmth—Athos’ head on his shoulder and Porthos’ cheek in his hair and even through chattering teeth and shaking limbs, Aramis feels something close to safe.

The cold is everywhere, invasive, and there isn’t a strip of skin free of its touch. He can feel it sinking past fragile flesh into muscle and sinew and bone, weaving into his nerves, his blood, and creeping towards his heart and lungs and brain. God, he’s so tired.

He tries to keep his eyes open but his lids suddenly feel made of lead and it’s impossible to keep them from falling. He’ll rest, just for a few moments.

Just for a few…

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

“Aramis!”

Someone is shaking him—a heavy hand on his shoulder. His arm hurts and his brain feels fuzzy, numb. Where…?

He blinks his eyes open and gasps at the rush of blinding white that invades his vision, slamming them shut again. Has he died? Is this heaven? Probably not, thinking about it—broken bones are not supposed to carry over into the afterlife.

“Aramis!” Another shake. God, why can’t they leave him alone? It’s quiet here, drifting like this, and he doesn’t want to move. “C’mon, get up!”

Wait. He knows that voice…

Tentatively, he cracks his eyes open again, wincing against the harsh light. A shadow steps in front of him, blocking the worst of it out, and he squints up at a familiar face—tight with worry. “Porthos…?”

“You need to get up,” Porthos insists, tugging on his good arm.  He hisses at the jolt that sends into the bad one and tries to pull away. He’s fine here, why can’t Porthos see that?

“’M fine…”

“That’s the cold talkin’,” Porthos insists, looping an arm across his back. “C’mon, stand up. You need to move round a bit.”

Aramis reluctantly allows Porthos to haul him to his feet, grumbling in Spanish and French under his breath at the inconvenience. His joints are stiff and achy and he has to lean heavily on Porthos for support once he finally manages to get his legs to hold him without collapsing.

“Let’s walk,” Porthos says, guiding him forward.

He stumbles on the first three steps and glowers at Porthos. “Why is this necessary?”

Porthos glares right back. “To keep you from freezin’ to death, idiot. Aren’t you the medic? C’mon, that’s it, keep walking.”

Later he’s going to be offended at being treated like he’s a child—when he’s not busy taking in their surroundings and trying to sort out recent events in his still muzzy brain. Athos is checking over their one remaining horse with none of his usual grace—movements as jerky and awkward as Aramis feels his own are, staggering along next to Porthos. A fresh layer of snow is coating the ground, more than ankle deep, and the branches above them are heavy with it.

Porthos leads him in a slow circle around the giant tree and more flickers return. The Beaulacs, the forest, the  _storm—_ and falling asleep in the middle of it, cocooned between Athos and Porthos…

Well shit.

Porthos spots the realisation as it dawns on his face. “Ah, rememberin’ now, are we?”

“Why in God’s name did you let me fall asleep?” He snaps as he moves his good arm, trying harder to work feeling back into his numb appendages. He’s shivering violently, but glad for it—at least hypothermia didn’t take him all the way to death’s door.

 God really must be watching over them.

“Cause I fell asleep, too.” Aramis gives him a look sharp with alarm. He pats Aramis’ shoulder in reassurance. “Athos didn’t. Stubborn bastard. He woke me up. Took me a long tine to get you up, though. I was really gettin’ worried.”

“Sorry,” Aramis says instinctively, because he’s spent eight months apologising to Porthos and he still hasn’t figured out how to stop— _sorry I’m so weak sorry I woke you again sorry I yelled sorry you have to take care of me sorry I couldn’t stop Marsac from leaving sorry I’m the only one who came back sorry sorry sorry—_ “I’ll be alright.”

He’s not too sure of that, actually, but lying to Porthos is another thing that’s become close to habit—at least about how much he’s breaking inside.

“I know,” Porthos replies, easy, and they start a second lap around the tree.

The shivering is slowing, settling, and he doesn’t feel like anything is going to snap off if he moves too much. He trades a nod with Athos as he passes, taking in the pallor of the man’s skin and the steel still in his eyes. 

“When we get back, I’m going to sit in front of a fire for at least a week. Or maybe a month. Until spring.”

Porthos laughs, like Aramis was hoping he would. “Sounds perfect. Treville definitely owes us a little leave.”

“More than a little. I’m going to have a long conversation with him about adequately preparing his men for assignments.”

“’E couldn’t’ve known, Aramis.”

Aramis sniffs, haughty. “Well, I’m still blaming him.”

That earns him another quiet laugh from Porthos and an affectionate squeeze to the back of his neck. They complete the lap and stop by Athos and the horse—one horse, right, the other gone in the storm. He’d forgotten about that and his lightened mood swiftly deflates again.

“What now?” He asks, glancing at his two companions.

“I’ll ride ahead,” Porthos decides. “Find another farm and borrow a horse. I can be back here in a few hours.”

Athos’ voice reflects the same steel as in his gaze. “No.”

Porthos draws himself up to his full, impressive height and Aramis takes a step back, sensing the beginnings of another fight. “It’s the only way.”

“No it isn’t. And you know it.”

“It _is._ Give me the reins. I’ll be back by afternoon and we can continue on then.”

“ _No.”_

“Get outta my way.” Porthos snatches the reins from Athos’ hands. Athos draws his pistol.

Aramis can’t breathe.

“I said no,” Athos repeats, weapon aimed at Porthos’ head. Porthos stares down the barrel, stunned speechless. “You’re going to get on the horse and ride for Paris and you are not going to look back.”

“I’m not leavin’—” Porthos argues, recovering.

“ _I am **not** ASKING!” _ Athos roars, louder than Aramis has ever heard him—loud enough to make both him and Porthos flinch. He takes a breath, calms, and repeats in his usual quiet bite, “I’m not asking. Get on the horse, Porthos. Get the documents to Paris. _Now.”_

Porthos still looks ready to protest and Aramis manages to find his voice. “Do as he says, Porthos.”

The betrayed glance Porthos gives him cuts deep, but Athos is _right._ This is their only chance and duty must become before anything else—that’s what they swore when they chose to wear the royal insignia on their shoulders and that’s the last thing Aramis will cling to as the life leaves him. He still tries to smile, gallant and unaffected, because this is the only thing he can give Porthos now—more lies.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Like hell you will,” Porthos growls, taking step towards to Aramis and ignoring the gun Athos still has raised. “Aramis…”

“We’ll be fine,” Aramis repeats, steady. He can also give Porthos _life,_ he’s realising, and that is everything.

“I’ll be _days,_ Aramis, and—”

“Go.” Aramis closes the rest of the distance between them, noticing that Athos has lowered the pistol and hardly caring. “It’s not a choice anymore, _mon ami._ ”

Porthos looks like his heart is being ripped out of his chest and Aramis swallows around the _grief_ that expression elicits. He’ll take it with him to the grave, he’s sure of it—the last time he disappointed Porthos, the last promise he ever broke.

But then Porthos’ face shutters and his jaw sets in determination and the moment passes with a breath of relief. “I’ll get Treville to send men as soon as I’m in Paris. You find somewhere to hide out until then, got it?”

“We will,” Athos says when Aramis suddenly discovers he can’t and it’s a lie, perhaps the worst one yet, but Porthos cannot see through Athos like he can Aramis.

“Yes,” he says, latching onto Athos’ strength. “We’ll be waiting. And probably bored to tears, so hurry.”

Porthos doesn’t laugh this time, just drags Aramis in for an awkward hug, careful of the broken arm. Aramis stares at the irritatingly blue sky beyond Porthos’ shoulder and blinks back the tears pricking at his eyes. Athos get the same treatment a minute later—much to his surprise if the raw look that passes over his features is anything to judge by—and then Porthos is climbing onto the horse.

“Be safe,” Aramis says, managing one last strung-together smile.

“You too.” _Promise. Promise me you’ll still be here when I get back, you’ll be all right, you’ll **live.** Promise._

Aramis can’t—not this time—but he forces a jaunty wave as Porthos rides away. Athos appears at his shoulder and they watch Porthos disappear into the trees. He doesn’t look back.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Porthos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been bowled over by the support for and interest in this story. You guys continue to amaze me. :) 
> 
> WARNING this chapter is where shit emphatically hits the fan for our intrepid duo so beware of some unpleasant scenes ahead, depicting torture and other general nastiness. 
> 
> Sorry. Brace yourselves. Don't kill me.

Once the crunch of hooves in snow has faded, Aramis turns to Athos with a questioning look. “So what’s the plan?”

Athos arches an eyebrow. Aramis resists rolling his eyes. Barely. “I know you have one and it isn’t hiding somewhere until Porthos returns, so out with it.”

Athos adjusts his gloves, pulling them tighter onto his hands—on anyone else a nervous gesture, on Athos a perfect display of precision and control. “We need to make sure Porthos isn’t followed.”

Aramis wishes he could cross his arms for effect. “And how do you propose we do that?”

“The men will be back. We just need to convince them that we have the documents.”

“By getting captured.”

Athos inclines his head. “They will still send scouts to look for Porthos but we should be able to keep most of their attention on us.”

Aramis runs his good hand through his hair and blows out a fog of breath. He isn’t surprised, really, by Athos’ proposition that they surrender themselves to the enemy—the man is oddly selfless when it comes to the two of them, for reasons Aramis doesn’t yet understand—but the thought is still difficult to swallow.

He’s not exactly looking forward to being tortured again.

“Well, if needs must,” he says with a grim smile.

“I am sorry,” Athos says quietly.

Aramis waves him off. “No, I’ve never wanted a boring death.”

That earns him a faint smirk from Athos and then the man gestures to the forest, in the opposite direction Porthos rode. “Shall we, then?”

Aramis dips his head and they traipse, side by side, through the snow—towards the end.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

The duke’s men find them almost painfully easily—Aramis consoles himself with the fact that they weren’t really trying to hide—and Athos’ back pressed against his is comforting as the riders circle them like hungry vultures.

The leader dismounts—and, oh joy, it’s Bastard, of course he was the one who escaped the camp unscathed, why does the universe seem determined to spit on them this week?—and stalks towards them in long, purposeful strides. Athos is the first one he reaches and so is on the receiving end of Bastard’s vicious backhand, delivered with enough force to make Athos stumble a step.

 Aramis bristles, but forces himself to remain calm—this is only the start.

“Where’s the other one?” Bastard asks, gripping the front of Athos’ cloak and giving him a rough shake.

“Dead,” Athos says without hesitation. “His horse went down in the storm.”

Bastard releases him with a shove and a shake of his head, then turns and directs four men to ride on in search of either Porthos or his body—only four, Porthos can handle four, it’s working. That thought is enough to keep Aramis steady as a rope is tied around his waist and he’s treated to the extremely unpleasant experience of being pulled along behind another of the men’s horses, struggling to keep his footing in the ankle-deep snow.

He has a feeling these next few days are going to be some of the worst of his life. Fantastic.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

By the time their captors decide to make camp, Aramis can barely stay upright and his arm is pulsing again—deep throbs of pain that travel into his chest and down to his fingertips. He’s soaked to the bone from the times he fell along the way and shivering, too, and all he can do is sway pitifully as the men dismount and fan out with military precision.

The duke has been training his militia well, it would seem.

The sun is high in the a still-cloudless sky, but little of its warmth makes it to the ground—still, Aramis is grateful for the feeble light breaking through the trees. He peers up at it as one of the men hauls him into the middle of the clearing and shoves him to his knees, trying to draw some comfort from the pristine blue.

Athos hits the ground the next to him with a quiet grunt of pain and then Bastard is circling, circling, circling—vultures, all of them, just waiting for a chance to tear apart their prey. Aramis thinks he should probably be afraid, but there is only a strange peace sitting in chest—his death will grant Porthos life, will not be wasted, and isn’t that all a soldier can ask for, in the end?

Also, selfishly, perhaps, he is not alone. He is not alone and Athos will not leave him as Marsac did—whatever demise is waiting for them at the hands of these men they will face together.

“Where are the documents?” Bastard asks, not wasting any time.

They both remain silent—they’d discussed this, on the walk out of the woods, and they know the parts they have to play. Bastard fists a hand in Athos’ hair and wrenches his head back.

“We will get our answers. You’re already wounded.” A pointed look at Aramis’ sling. “How long do you expect to be able to withstand interrogation?”

“I suppose we will have to find out,” Athos replies, perfectly calm.

Bastard steps back and waves a hand, summoning two men over who proceed to strip off their cloaks and doublets. Aramis tenses as they also yank Athos’ scarf from his neck and he sees the moment Bastard notices the brand—the inquisitive tilt of his head and the deceptively gentle hand he reaches out to brush the damaged skin.

“A criminal in service to the king?” He sounds amused. “Louis is a more forgiving man than I thought. Or perhaps just blind.”

“Leave him alone,” Aramis snaps, letting too much emotion bleed into his voice. The man unwinding the sling from Aramis’ arm pauses to punch him for speaking out of turn.

Bastard crosses over to him, as predicted, and takes his broken arm, removing the splints. “I would be careful with your words, Musketeer,” he says, conversational, and presses down. The bones grind, jar, and Aramis just manages to bite back a scream. “They come with heavy consequences.”

“I am the leader of this mission,” Athos interjects. “Your quarrel is with me.”

Bastard laughs. “So protective of each other—it’s almost sweet.” 

He releases Aramis and the only thing stopping him from collapsing is the other man’s grip on the back of his shirt. The pain is white-hot, searing like the sun, and each heaving exhale is laced with it—two days, they just have to keep this up for two day so Porthos can reach Paris and then it will all be over.

“Get him up,” Bastard says, gesturing to Athos, “and tie his hands.”

Aramis watches, helpless, as they remove Athos’ shirt and haul his arms above his head, looping the rope over a tree branch and pulling it so taught that Athos’ feet can scarcely touch the ground. Bastard makes another inquisitive sound when he sees Athos’ scars, running that gentle hand down his back.

“My, what did you do? Must have been quite the crime.”

Athos says nothing and Bastard shakes his head. Another wave of his hand and one of the men steps forward, carrying a vicious-looking whip, its nine tails swishing ominously.

“Let’s start with thirty,” Bastard says—still so casual it _grates._

Aramis kneels in the snow and doesn’t look away as the first blow falls and the next and the next and the next and the next…

When it’s over Athos’ back is covered in blood-dotted welts and he hasn’t uttered a sound. 

“I’m impressed,” Bastard laughs, tipping Athos’ head up with a gloved hand beneath his chin. “But this is easy for you, isn’t it? Your scars say as much. What about your friend?” He glances at Aramis, eyes glinting. “Would he be able to endure as you have? Perhaps we should see.”

“Your quarrel is with me,” Athos repeats.

“Where are the documents?”

Aramis holds his tongue, as does Athos. Bastard sighs, dramatic, and shakes his head. “Get him up, then.”

Aramis nearly blacks out as he’s tied in the same position as Athos and all his weight is put on his broken arm—as it is, a scream does break free this time, echoing through the clearing.

“Oops,” Bastard says without remorse. “I forgot about the arm.”

Aramis swallows back a wave of bile and keeps his eyes squeezed shut against the agony— _two days just two days and then it will be over just endure for two days Porthos remember Porthos he has to live make sure he lives…_

The first strike is _fire,_ lighting up all his nerves, and unlike Athos, he doesn’t bother keeping his gasps and cries locked away.

_Two days just two days for Porthos for Porthos for Porthos for—_

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

“Aramis…”

He groans and blinks his eyes open slowly—God there’s so much  _pain_ and before he’s fully aware, he’s rolling over to vomit in the snow. When he finally works up the strength to lift his head and his vision clears, he sees Athos kneeling next to him, hands tied behind his back and rope tethered to a nearby tree. His shirt, now bloodstained, is back on and he has fresh bruises on his face—they must have continued beating him after Aramis passed out.

“Easy…” He murmurs, almost soothing. “I think they’ve finished for the moment.” A sardonic smirk. “Supper waits for nothing, it would seem.”

Aramis twists and looks past Athos to the camp. A fire is blazing and the men have gathered around—their chatter drifting back to where he and Athos are tied. Two of the company stand guard a few feet away. With another groan, Aramis lets his head fall back onto the soggy earth—too exhausted to attempt anything further. Athos is here and they are still alive and he clings to that through the waves of pain still wracking him.

“How long…?” He rasps.

“A few hours,” Athos replies, voice still hushed so the guards don’t overhear. “You lost consciousness halfway through.” His expression blackens. “They carried on regardless. Then turned their attention back to me.”

“Are you…?” He bites back the rest of the idiotic question. Of course Athos isn’t alright.

Something softens on Athos’ face—he looks remarkably like Porthos, right then, all gentle understanding. “Do not worry, I’ve experienced far worse.”

“That isn’t a comfort,  _mon ami,”_ Aramis murmurs instead of asking the questions still hovering eagerly on his lips—this is hardly the time to share histories.

Athos’ lips quirk up for a blink and then he’s solemn again. “I will do my best to keep them away from you.”

Aramis shakes his head. “No, don’t be a martyr. I knew what I was signing up for.”

More or less.

He turns his attention back to Athos, looking more closely at his visible wounds. “How bad is it?”

“I’m afraid they ruined your needlework,” Athos replies after a moment.

Aramis wheezes a battered laugh. “It’s okay. Wasn’t my best.”

Athos doesn’t reply and Aramis takes a moment to assess his situation. His own hands are tied in front of him and the rope is knotted securely to the same tree as Athos’. They probably decided he was less of a risk with his broken arm and they’re sadly right—he cannot move the appendage without nearly retching again from the surge of pain even the smallest shift elicits.

He’s so cold.

“You should rest,” Athos says, shifting a little closer. “They may let us have the night before resuming tomorrow.”

“You too.” Aramis jerk his chin. “Come here.”

Athos hesitates for a breath, two, and then he’s lying down next to Aramis, hissing when his wounds are strained. Ignoring the rancorous ache of his own injuries, Aramis curls into him—desperate for even the feeble warmth his body offers—forehead against Athos’ shoulder and Athos’ bruised cheek pressed to his temple, the only small comforts they are able to offer each other.

He closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep. Instead, he listens to Athos’ pulse and draws strength from the steady beat of his heart.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

_Crack. Pain. Oh God, oh God, da mihi virtutem auxilium ferre me déjelo final por favor deje terminar—_

Aramis sobs into the wet earth as his ribs crack beneath a heavy boot. The duke’s men look like monsters in the pre-dawn light—towering shadows—and he can’t see Athos, where is Athos, are they hurting Athos?

Bastard is circling again—circling, circling, circling— _where is Athos? did they take Athos?_ He remembers being wrenched awake, Athos’ warmth disappearing, and then the boot and now Bastard circles, circles, circles, wearing a smile in his voice.

“The two of you are so touching. It’s sickening, really.”

“Leave him alone.” Athos, breathless but alive, and Aramis closes his eyes in relief.

_Thank God, thank God—_ he isn’t alone yet, not yet.

Bastard turns away and Aramis tries to shore up his walls. He can’t break, not until the end.

_One more day one more day for Porthos remember for Porthos…_

“Where are the documents?” Bastard is asking and when Aramis opens his eyes, he finally spots Athos, kneeling a few feet away with blood dripping down his face and fire in his gaze.

“You’re going to have to try harder for an answer, I’m afraid,” Athos remarks, dry, and Aramis almost smiles—defiant bastard.

“Yes,” he rasps, wishing he had the strength to sit up. “Clearly you were lying when you said you were incredibly persuasive. This is pathetic.”

Bastard tilts his head, regarding them with cool green eyes. Aramis doesn’t like the spark of amusement he sees in them. “Fine. This _is_ getting quite boring, isn’t it? Let’s play a different game.”

A flick of his hand—something Aramis has already learned to dread—and Athos is hauled to his feet, the rope tethering him to the tree cut. He sways dangerously, but keeps his balance—stubborn until the end. Aramis is dragged upright, as well, with a rough grip on his both his arms, good and damaged.  He shakes from the pain, but he can as stubborn as Athos, damnit, and he will not collapse in front of Bastard and his posse.

“Walk,” one of the men beside him orders, punctuating it with a shove. It requires a worrying amount of concentration, but he obeys—slowly, one foot in front of the other, eyes on Athos just ahead of him.

They stop at the edge of a frozen lake, tucked away in the woods, and dread pools heavy in Aramis’ stomach, the base of his chest. Bastard draws his pistol and levels it at Athos’ head.

“Keep walking.”

Athos squares his shoulders and does, stepping onto the ice without hesitation.

“Stop,” Bastard calls when Athos reaches the centre of the lake.

Aramis can’t  _breathe—oh God, oh God, da mihi virtutem custodi me a solveret por favor no se lo lleven de mí…_

Bastard looks at Aramis—eyes as cold as the ice behind them. “Where are the documents?”

Aramis trembles and holds his tongue. Bastard nods to one of his men. The scout takes his musket and strikes the ice with all his strength. Cracks begin to spiderweb across the smooth surface, reaching greedy fingers for Athos, slithering beneath his feet.

Aramis can’t  _breathe,_ he can’t  _breathe—_ he doesn’t want to be alone. He can’t die alone in this forest, surrounded by the bodies of his brothers, the life leeching from him slowly— _please he’ll die he’s not afraid to die but not alone—come back, Marsac, please don’t leave me here alone I don’t want to be alone—_

“Where are the documents?” Bastard repeats and Aramis struggles to wrench himself from the past— _different woods these are different woods…_

He doesn’t answer quickly enough and the man raises his musket again. More cracks, like gunshots, and Athos stares at the ice starting to yield beneath his feet. Aramis knows the parts they’re meant to play, but God help him he’s selfish and he cannot lose Athos like this, not like this—when they go it will be  _together._

It takes little effort for tears to flood his eyes— _is it still playacting when he feels scraped raw inside and fraying just like the ice on the lake?_ —and he stumbles forward a step, letting his emotions break across his face.

“Stop! Stop, please, I’ll tell you. I’ll you where they are.”

Bastard radiates smug interest. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Aramis says, voice heavy with defeat. “Please, bring him in and I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“Don’t!” Athos yells from the ice—bloodstained and battered but still so fierce, following Aramis’ improvisation perfectly, and Aramis, heaven help him, starts to love him with the same aching intensity that he does Porthos. “Don’t tell him, Aramis!”

“I can’t watch you die,” Aramis replies—a nice crack in the middle of his words for effect that he’s going to pretend was intentional. “Please, bring him in.”

Bastard deliberates for an agonising moment before turning to the lake. “Come back in, then, Musketeer. It seems your friend is not nearly as brave as you.”

Athos picks his way carefully back, accompanied by more awful sounds of the ice straining. It gives way when he’s nearly reached the shore and Aramis hitches a terrified gasp before one of the men reaches out and keeps Athos from pitching headfirst into the shallow, freezing water, dragging him back to solid ground.

For an instant, Aramis is absurdly grateful to them. Then he remembers all the  _torture_ and the emotion thankfully passes.

Athos is glaring at him—an expression almost comforting in its familiarity—but he keeps his attention on Bastard.

“We’re waiting, Musketeer. Where are the documents?”

“We buried them,” Aramis says, also ignoring Athos’ quiet, furious “ _Aramis.”_

Bastard takes a threatening step forward.  “Where?”

“In the forest, not far from here. I’ll show you.”

“Good,” Bastard says, pleasant. “Of course, you must understand that if you’re lying, he will die a far more painful death than the one you just spared him from.”

Aramis swallows audibly, makes his eyes big and scared in his face. “Of course.”

Bastard tips his hat. “Excellent. Lead the way.”

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

They walk all morning. Aramis fields Bastard’s impatience with repeated—“just a little further, I promise”—placations. In truth, he has no real direction in mind—the plan is to walk until he physically can’t anymore and then declare the hiding place revealed.

Athos keeps pace with him, step for laborious step, and Aramis doesn’t know if he’ll ever find words for how much the man’s steady presence means to him. It’s amazing, really, how deeply trauma can change perspective—enough to turn the whole world upside down.

At last, when the sun is high and distant overhead, Aramis feels his body giving out—his arm and ribs and back one tangled, burning mess of pain.

“Here,” he pants, stopping in an nondescript clearing, right before the trees give way to open fields again. Unable to move his arms, he settles for nodding his head towards a cluster of rocks. “Beneath the boulders.”

Bastard, mounted on his horse, puts a boot in Aramis’ back. He collapses to his knees as his vision briefly whites out. “Get digging, then.”

Thankfully, one of their captors hauls him upright by the back of his shirt because he’s fairly positive he wouldn’t have been able to stand on his own. He’s flung back down twenty paces later, right in front of the boulders, and Athos falls next to him with a pained grunt.

Aramis blinks down at the earth and wonders how in God’s name he’s going to manage  _this._ A gentle nudge to his shoulder—he turns and Athos is regarding him, all the hostility from earlier gone now that they’re relatively alone.

“Let me.”

He leans forward and begins to scrape up mounds of dirt with his bound hands.

_I’m sorry,_ Aramis wants to say,  _I cracked too soon. They’re going to kill us and we haven’t given Porthos enough time. I’m so sorry._

But the guards are too close, so he tries to make it look like he’s digging, too—head bent close to Athos’ as they work.

It’s slow going and Bastard takes to pacing less than ten minutes in, shooting them furious looks. It’s gratifying, watching the man’s calm, pleasant mask start to chip, and Aramis trades a satisfied glance with Athos.

They’ll be dead soon, but at least they will have managed to annoy their captors to kingdom come beforehand.

After half an hour they’ve crated a sizable hole and Aramis gears himself up for Act II.

“No,” he whispers, horrified, and scrabbles around in the dirt as Bastard comes to hover at their backs. “They’re gone.”

“What?” Bastard snarls and grabs a fistful of his hair, pulling so hard Aramis is amazed it remains attached to his scalp.

He stares up a Bastard with tear-lined eyes. “They’re gone! I—I don’t know what—we left them  _here_ I’m  _sure_ of it, someone must have been watching us—someone took them I—”

“ _Enough.”_  The hand shifts to his throat, fingers digging in. Black spots begin to form as his air is mercilessly cut off. “Enough lies, you little shit.  _Where are the documents?”_

“In Paris,” Athos says with quiet, smug superiority. “Soon to be in the hands of the king.”

Bastard drops Aramis and rounds on Athos, kicking him hard in the chest and then pinning him to the ground with a boot against his wounded side. “You’re lying.”

“No,” Athos says through gritted teeth. “We were simply buying time for the third member of our party to reach Paris.  Which by now, he has. It’s over. You’ve lost.”

Bastard roars, primal, and pulls his pistol. Aramis tenses, waiting for the shot, for the sight of Athos’ brains painted across the snow— _red on white and why am I the last?_ But Bastard shifts and shoots Athos in the leg.

Athos shrieks in agony, back arching, and Aramis wonders hysterically if he should have let him drown.  Bastard kicks him twice in the side and then he’s reloading and stalking back to Aramis and oh, he understands now.

He’s pushed onto his back and then  _bang_ he has a matching wound on his own leg and his eyes are rolling back in his head as the world drowns in  _pain, pain_ and surely he must die from this, there’s only so much the human body can take, after all—but when Bastard steps back he’s still breathing, air gasping its way in and out of his lungs.

“I was going to give you a quick death,” Bastard says, calming again. “But you’ve lost that privilege. Either blood loss or the cold will take you now. Enjoy the slow fade, gentlemen.”

And then they’re gone, thundering out of the clearing after Porthos, and Aramis can only hope they’ve given him enough time—that in this one, last thing, they haven’t failed.

He prays, crumpled in the snow, for Porthos’ safety— _God, let him be safe, let him live, imitando eum in pace protegam eum semper cum eo placet, please._

_Please…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Sorry again. 
> 
> And apologies if the Spanish and Latin is crap. I did my best with the internet, which we all know is rarely stellar about these things.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death, life, and memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely people, you continue to astound me. Thank you all for your amazing feedback so far. :) 
> 
> This chapter, I don't know. It's given me a lot of grief and hopefully it holds up to previous standards. Apologies in advance if it doesn't. 
> 
> WARNING: Athos' past is extremely very not pretty. Discussion of some dark things ahead, including slavery, abuse, and violence towards children. 
> 
> Sorry.

Somehow, impossibly, he wakes up.

He’s seated with his back against a tree—Athos pressed along his side and the white earth rolling out before them. The cold is wracking his body with tremors, but at least it’s numbed his wounds. The snow around him is stained a brilliant red and blood drips steadily from his breeches. His broken arm has been carefully arranged in his lap.

What…?

“Welcome back,” Athos murmurs, eyes on horizon.

Aramis shifts to look at him. “Did you … drag me over here?”

How Athos managed  _that_ with a wounded leg, Aramis has no idea but it seems to be the only possible explanation.

“I thought we could admire the view,” Athos rasps with a wan, wry smile.

Aramis rattles out the ghost of a laugh. It really is a splendid view. “Yes … why die without something … pretty to look at?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Aramis sighs. He can feel the life draining from him but it will be awhile yet. There is time enough to clear out skeletons, he thinks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – I hope we gave Porthos enough time.”

“We did the best we could.”

“Still. I should have held out longer – or tried to—”

“Aramis,” Athos interrupts him. His eyes are brilliant blue in the slowly dying light and his voice is gentle. “It’s fine.”

Aramis accepts the pardon. Dwelling seems pointless now. “You know,” he says, changing topics, “they say that hell is supposed to be a lake of fire. That actually sounds rather nice right now.”

Athos arches an eyebrow. “Isn’t that blasphemy?”

“I’m freezing to death. I think God will be forgiving.”

“Perhaps,” Athos leans his head back against the tree. “Of some things.”

Ah, speaking of skeletons.

“It’s funny … my parents wanted me to be a priest, serve in a monastery perhaps, but I craved adventure too much. I think they were disappointed, even if they never said so.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“Right now, yes.”

Athos huffs out a laughing breath and Aramis smiles—so, so glad he isn’t alone.

“I suppose, what I am trying to say is that though I am hardly qualified, if you wish to confess anything, before the end, I’ll listen,” he continues quietly, unsure of how Athos will take the offer.

A ragged exhale and Athos turns his eyes skyward. “Thank you, but I am afraid God and I parted ways a long time ago. There is no place for me in heaven, regardless of a confession. My sins are too great.”

“Sometimes,” Aramis presses carefully, “it is not about salvation, but letting go.”

Silence—long, uncertain, and Aramis doesn’t want to let it hold, doesn’t want to die in absolute stillness, surrounded by those already gone. So he closes his eyes and speaks, letting the words flow out as they wish, unchecked.

“Eight months ago, I was on a training exercise near the French border with twenty-one of my fellow musketeers. It was a simple assignment. We had no reason to be on our guard.” He swallows around the lump in his throat because he has not talked about Savoy properly with anyone, even Porthos. “But a Spanish raiding party attacked us in the night, butchering most of my brothers where they slept. I was badly wounded and dragged to safety by one of the men, Marsac. We – we hid in the trees while the others were slaughtered. And then Marsac … left. Only I returned to Paris.”

Athos remains quiet and Aramis is thankful. He does not need comforts or reassurances—merely a listening ear. His eyes are wet, but something is easing in his chest. “And now … I wonder if I was meant to die there, with the rest, and this is simply fate correcting its mistake.”

He heaves out another jagged laugh. “Why else would I alone survive? I am eight months past my expiration date, living on stolen time. So death is here to claim me.”

The rest of his words have dried up and he blinks the tears away. There, he dug up the ghosts and the bones and now, maybe, he can die in peace.

After another pregnant pause, Athos speaks, low and hesitant, without any of his usual bite, “I was sentenced to hard labour in the colonies. But … I never – the convoy transporting prisoners was attacked on the way to Le Havre.  We were captured and re-sold on the black market. I … I fell into the hands of a man known as Le Renard.”

Aramis frowns. There is something familiar in that name. Athos sees his recognition and smiles—empty and mirthless. “You might have heard of him. He was well known in the underground for running numerous …  _distasteful_ enterprises, designed to cater to those with more … unusual vices.”

Yes, yes, he remembers now. Missing men, sometimes women and children, too, Treville chasing leads all over Paris, but it was in the immediate aftermath of Savoy and he cared little for the details of life in those days.

Athos continues—gaze on the sun bouncing its rays off the snow, turning the hills gold. “Le Renard liked me. Liked seeing nobility ground into the dirt beneath his boots. One of the enterprises he ran was a fighting ring. Most of the matches were to the death. I … I fought a lot.”

Aramis feels brittle, suddenly—like his ribs are too small to contain his haemorrhaging heart.

“Not all of the men were criminals. One,” a hysterical laugh, “one of them told me about his wife and daughter back in Paris and the next night I butchered him in the ring.” He looks at Aramis and his red-rimmed, desolate eyes cut like daggers. “Do you see? I could never go to the king for a pardon. I may not have been a murderer when I was convicted but I am now.”

“You had to survive,” Aramis argues, voice hoarse. He understands, he  _understands,_ and it wasn’t supposed to  _hurt_ like this. “You had no choice. Athos—”

“There were children.”

The rest of Aramis’ words are crushed by sudden, all-consuming  _dread._

_I murdered them. All of them. There was no other way. I had to keep them safe._

Oh  _God,_ oh  _Christ._

“They were to be used to … to satisfy the  _perversions_ of some of Le Renard’s clients. The oldest was no more than ten.”

_Christ, Christ._ No.  _No._ Athos, oh God, _Athos_...

“The night they arrived, before they were to be …  _used,”_ Athos’ voice splinters and his eyes are wet, but no tears escape, “I snuck into where they were being held and killed them all.”

Aramis searches blindly for words, but there are none—no words on earth for  _this._

“I have the blood of children on my hands,” Athos whispers and turns that tear-soaked gaze to Aramis. “How can you possibly look at me and say I am not a monster? That I don’t deserve to burn in hell?”

Aramis closes his eyes and thinks of masked raiders with relentless swords, of Bastard and his men and their whips and laughter, of red on white, bodies in the snow—blood and broken bones and the ones who smile at another’s pain. And Athos,  _Athos—_ who sent Porthos to salvation, who cares so deeply for them and sits here in the snow with blood on his hands and hell in his eyes, asking for judgment.

He says,  _aching,_ “Because I know you.”

_It was the only way. I had to keep them safe._

When he opens his eyes again Athos is staring at him like he holds the very threads of fate in his hands, and it’s not his place to pass judgment, but love,  _love_ has always been an entirely different story.

He _understands,_  as much as it hurts. And it’s easy, then. “I know you, and I know why you did it, and I will never see a monster when I look at you.”

“What do you see, then?” God, he sounds bitter and so  _young_ all at once. It’s heartbreaking.

“A musketeer,” Aramis replies without hesitation. “And a damn fine one.” He reaches out and curls his stiff fingers in the front of Athos’ shirt. Here, at the end, he thinks he’s allowed a little sentimentality. “A man I would have been proud to serve with and follow. A  _good_ man.”

Athos lets out a hiccupping breath, a battered attempt at a laugh, and leans into Aramis. “You cannot mean that.”

 “I do,” Aramis says firmly. “Whatever you were doesn’t matter, _mon ami_. I care about who you are _now_ and right now, you are an honourable man who protects his brothers, puts their needs above his own.” A wet laugh. “Athos, you’ve given up your life for us.”

Athos gives him a lopsided smile and behind the grief some of the shadows have left his eyes. “It wasn’t much of a life. I am pleased it can be of some use.” He hesitates and then, quiet, “This is a better death than I could have hoped for. I just … I am sorry that you are here with me.”

Aramis presses their foreheads together. “I am not.”

A shudder runs through Athos that Aramis doesn’t think is the cold and he shifts closer, fisting a hand in Aramis’ shirt as his eyes slip shut, locking away the tears.

Aramis’ chest still feels too small, unable to hold the building sorrow.  _Fuck,_ but they could have been something.

The three of them—they could have been something amazing.

_You’ll have to live for all of us now, Porthos._

Though, if anyone can manage that it’s him—more full of  _life_ than anyone Aramis has ever known.

“We should rest,” Athos murmurs, forehead still resting against Aramis’. “The sun is setting.”

Yes, it is. In a few hours, it will be dark and they will be gone. Aramis shuts his eyes and lays to rest his regrets, his fears, his  _grief—_ that Porthos will be alone, that he had so little time to know the man next to him, that he’s going to die in a snow-covered forest after all, just eight months too late.

Then he nods and pulls back.

It takes more effort than it should—all his limbs stiff and numb and his thoughts starting to scatter.

Not long now.

He doesn’t go far, keeping Athos pressed along his side, and tilts his head until it touches Athos’. “I hope you rest well,” he whispers, staring out at the blazing horizon line.

The shadows are lengthening. Death creeps along the forest floor.

“You too,” Athos replies and manages to take Aramis’ good hand in his. “I shall see you in the morning.”

Aramis blinks hard against a sudden influx of tears and shoves the words out around the lump in his throat. “Yes. I think it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

Athos hums in agreement and gives Aramis a tiny, affectionate smile that hits his ribcage like a sledgehammer. “At least tonight … I think I will not dream.”

Aramis squeezes his hand with all of his feeble strength and watches his eyes slide closed. They do not reopen. Death has reached them—he can feel its breath on the back of his neck, its soft voice beckoning him into the void.

With a quiet sigh, he shuts his own eyes and surrenders into its frigid embrace.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

  **Summer, 1625**

“Get a load of ‘im, eh?”

Porthos nudges him with an elbow, knocking him out of the trance he’d fallen into. He lifts his gaze from his untouched stew to the courtyard and sounds start trickling in again—the clash of swords, the creak of leather, the clink of cutlery against tin plates. He immediately sees what Porthos was referring to: the newest recruit, duelling three men in the middle of the yard.

Though, duelling is probably a generous term. The recruit is rather soundly thrashing all three of them—and Albert, Bastien, and Francois are no amateurs.

“Never seen anyone move like that before,” Porthos says with a touch of awe in his voice.

Aramis has, once, almost—in a forest two months ago. Marsac didn’t have the recruits grace and fluidity, perhaps, but with a sword he was close to a hurricane. Aramis shudders and looks away, pretending he can’t feel Porthos’ sad gaze on the side of his face. He knows Porthos wants their old banter, the comfort of conversation, but Aramis can’t think of anything to say anymore—hasn’t been able to for eight weeks now.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the energy to speak again except in the grip of his nightmares.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” A new voice says—Jean-Pierre.

Aramis has never really liked the man. He talks with a scathing undercurrent that grates incessantly and it’s even more present now.  He’s also the worst gossip in the garrison and the rumours he circulated about Porthos when he first got his commission still have not been forgiven in Aramis’ eyes.

“Nobility, everyone is saying. As high as a comte or a marquis, even. Drinks like he’s afraid Paris will run out of wine, though.”

The new recruit kicks Bastien’s leg hard enough to knock him down and whirls to slash at Albert’s face. The other man barely manages to dodge. Off to the side, Francois looks like he’s gathering his wits from a rather rough blow to his stomach.

Nobility who fights dirty enough to rival Porthos—once upon a time Aramis would have been intrigued. But that was Before. Now he feels nothing except crushing emptiness and he watches with distance.

“I was on parade duty with him the other day,” Jean-Pierre continues and honestly, he’s worse than a fishwife. “Arrogant bastard. He talks down to everyone. Newest recruit in the regiment and he expects us to follow  _him_ around.”

Porthos shrugs. “’E’s nobility, ain’t ‘e? Must come with the territory.”

“Nobility doesn’t matter here,” Jean-Pierre insists, even though that wasn’t what he said about Porthos and he’s a vicomte himself. “He should learn that.”

Porthos’ smile is sharp. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to remind ‘im.”

In the middle of the yard, the recruit has put Albert on his back and Francois is raising his sword in surrender—something between fear and rage on his face. The recruit’s own expression could be carved of stone and he dips his head in curt acquiescence. When he turns to look at them, his eyes are as cold and desolate as Aramis feels.

Aramis almost acknowledges him—one walking corpse to another.

Jean-Pierre suddenly looks nervous. “Of course.”

He thankfully takes his leave and Aramis’ gaze drops to his stew again. Why bother? Soon enough, the recruit will be dead on a battlefield somewhere.

No point in getting to know him.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

**Present**

Flickers.

Hands reaching towards him. Blurred stars overhead. Wagon wheels rattling. More hands. Steps against wooden floor. Something soft beneath him. Warmth,  _warmth_ for the first time. Flames flickering. Blood, brilliant red.

_Pain,_ searing,  _burning,_ and screams reaching for heaven because surely God has not…?

Darkness again, black as pitch, impenetrable.

But then, but  _then…_

Distorted shapes. Murmuring voices. Damp cloth against his forehead. More warmth, all around him, consuming him. Liquid sliding down his throat.

He struggles, reaches gasping for the light he can see on the edges of his vision.

And somehow, impossibly, he wakes up.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all absolutely fantastic. We're almost there. 
> 
> WARNING: Brief mention of attempted suicide.

“Easy, easy,” a voice says, gentle, and the world is still a blur of colour and shadow, but he’s _alive,_ he’s alive.

How…?

“P’thos?” He slurs and there is a hand on his good shoulder, pushing him carefully down onto what he recognises dimly as a mattress.

God … he’s alive?

“You need to rest,” the voice continues as Aramis’ eyelashes flutter and he fights off the cobwebs still clinging to the corners of his exhausted mind. There’s something he’s missing—an emptiness against his side, a presence…

“Athos!” He blurts, eyes flying open and snapping abruptly, dizzyingly into focus. “Athos…”

A stranger is standing over him with a weathered face and grey streaking his dark hair. His brow furrows and he presses harder on Aramis’ shoulder. “Please, stay still…”

Aramis bares his teeth in a snarl, frantic now— _where is Athos? what have they done with Athos? he needs to see Athos—_ “Where is he? Where’s Athos?”

Understanding begins to dawn in the man’s eyes. “Your friend is over there.”

He steps to the side and Aramis can see a body lying on another bed—a few feet of space separate them, but it might as well have been the ocean for how frail Aramis feels. He won’t be able to reach Athos, can barely lift his head from the pillow, but he  _has_ to know if he’s alone, if that’s a corpse or his friend, so he tries to lever himself up with his good arm.

“Athos…” he rasps like a prayer, a plea.

“Stop,” the stranger says, trying to get him back down on the bed, and Aramis fights him, panic giving him strength.

“Get off me! I need to … make sure he’s alright.”

“He’s alive,” the man assures him but Aramis won’t believe it, can’t believe it, until he feels Athos’ heartbeat beneath his own fingertips and for God’s sake why can’t this man just  _let him up?_

“Let go … I need to see him … I need…”

“You need to lie back down before you reopen your wounds. Your friend is fine.”

“ _No,_ let  _go of me!”_

He can feel the panic wrapping a cruel hand around his throat and the pain is a distant thought, lost beneath the crushing weight of his  _fear._ Why are they keeping Athos from him? Is he dead? Do they not want him to know?

He curses at the man and throws his body upwards, trying to break free.

The stranger is looking increasingly nervous and then another man appears in the doorway—around the same age as the one gripping Aramis’ shoulder but carrying a much more commanding presence.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know!” the first man exclaims. “He woke up and started panicking and now I cannot understand a word he’s saying. He’s worried about the other one.”

Dimly, he realises that he’s switched to Spanish, but he doesn’t try to correct back to French. Right now, his mother’s tongue is a familiar comfort and he’ll cling to it.

“Fine, keep him in the bed.”

The second man walks toward Athos and Aramis is a bit shocked at the growl that comes out of his own throat, almost feral— _if you hurt him if you hurt him don’t you dare hurt him is he even alive please be alive please—_ and it’s something he probably learned from Porthos, this desperate need to  _protect._ But the man lifts Athos gently from the bed, ignoring the first one’s protests, and sets him next to Aramis.

“There,” he says, almost paternal, and Aramis immediately curls into Athos, pressing an ear to his chest.

_Please please please…_

It takes a moment,  _too long,_ but  _there,_ there it is, weak and slow, unmistakable—the steady beat of Athos’ heart.

Aramis closes his eyes and chokes on a sob of relief. Athos is alive and nothing matters beyond that. He cares not who these men are or where this is or what will happen to them next—as long as Athos draws breath he will have the strength to face anything.

A hand touches his shoulder again and he lifts a wary gaze to the first stranger, who is holding a cup in his hands. “Water, you should drink.”

Aramis allows the man to bring the cup to his lips and tilt the liquid into his mouth. As soon as it passes his lips the bitter taste nearly makes him spit it back up. Laudanum.

He forces himself to swallow, knowing it is meant to help with the pain that is now starting to creep back in as the adrenaline fades. The man gives him an encouraging smile as he sinks back into the bed, instinctively tilting his head to rest against Athos.

His eyelids feel heavy, lined with lead, and he lets them close with a soft sigh. His questions will have to wait.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

He’s much more coherent the next time he manages to drag his eyes open and the second stranger is sitting in a chair next to the bed, cutting off chunks of an apple with a knife. He smiles when he notices Aramis’ stare and for a brief moment, Aramis is reminded of his father.

“Ah, you’re awake.” He sets the apple and knife aside and stands, bringing over a cup of water. Aramis eyes it in distrust and the man laughs, low and warm. “Just water this time, I promise.”

Aramis accepts the drink—grateful to find it  _is_ just water—and then slumps back against the pillows, exhausted. His body aches all over, but he can feel the pull of stitching on his back and the press of bandages around his torso and leg. His arm has been splinted again and bound tightly to prevent movement.

Most importantly, Athos is still breathing at his side.

“Where are we?” He asks after a moment.

“An inn just north of Guéret.” Another wry smile that now reminds him of Athos. “Don’t worry, the innkeeper has agreed to wave your expenses until you are better. The physician has been, as well, and should return sometime tomorrow to assess your health, but he predicts that the worst of it is over. Though your friend has yet to wake.”

Aramis absorbs all of this slowly and nods, glancing curiously around. It’s a sparse room with a high ceiling, a wardrobe, and two beds. There is a fire crackling in the hearth and he realises suddenly that he’s buried under a copious amount of blankets and furs.

The stranger seems to notice his confusion. “Ah, you were near death from the cold when we brought you in and it quickly turned to fever. We had to keep you warm.”

“Who … are you?” He asks, a tad belatedly perhaps, considering the man’s kindness.

“Alexandre d’Artagnan, at your service.”

“Aramis,” He responds, figuring he will be safe with this man. “Of the king’s musketeers.”

The man arches an eyebrow. “A musketeer? I am humbled to make your acquaintance, monsieur. I’ve heard good things.” He gaze shifts to Athos and something cautious steals in. “Is your friend … also a musketeer?”

Aramis flicks his eyes to Athos and narrows in on the brand, stark in the firelight against Athos’ ashen skin. He stiffens as he turns back to d’Artagnan. If the man tries anything, Aramis will find a way to kill him.

“Yes,” he says evenly and waits for the man’s reaction.

The other eyebrow meets the first but then d’Artagnan seems to sense the tension rolling off Aramis and his stunned expression eases. “He must be an honourable man, to have earned a commission from the king.”

“He is,” Aramis replies, fierce and thinking of Athos yelling Porthos onto a horse and the warmth of his hand in Aramis’ as the black closed in.

They both do not acknowledge that the king would never be forgiving enough to allow a convicted criminal into his elite regiment—no matter the man’s talents or potential. Instead, d’Artagnan turns back to his apple and Aramis relaxes, content that the danger has passed for now.

“Are you hungry?” d’Artagnan asks suddenly. “I could fetch some broth? The physician said you need to keep your strength up.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees after a moment of deliberation, “please.”

D’Artagnan returns with broth a few minutes later and helps Aramis sit up against the headboard. He drinks straight from the bowl, clutching it tightly in his good hand. It’s too hot, but Aramis consumes it greedily—thrilled at the liquid fire slipping down his throat. He doesn’t think he will ever get enough warmth again.

Athos sleeps on, oblivious. There is a sheen of sweat on his skin but d’Artagnan claims that his fever broke last night so Aramis tries not to worry too excessively.

D’Artagnan patiently takes the bowl from him when he’s finished and eases him back down onto his back. The position makes his lashes sting, but he doubts there would be any comfortable way of sleeping with his various wounds.

“Would you like more laudanum? The physician left some.”

“In a moment. Tell me … what happened? We thought ourselves dead.”

D’Artagnan returns to his chair, pulling it closer, and smiles, rueful. “So did I, to be honest. I’m on my way back to Lupiac with some goods and I happened across you, near frozen to death on the edge of the forest. I rode to the nearest town and convinced them to return with a cart. The inn was closest and had the most room, so we brought you here and summoned the physician.”

“And how long ago was this?” Aramis forces himself to ask.

“Nearly three days,” d’Artagnan replies, solemn now. “I have rarely seen men with such severe wounds and the hypothermia was advanced. We feared you would lose your hands and feet, or worse. We had to sear the wounds on your legs closed—the exit point was too mangled to stitch properly. Thankfully, the cold kept the worst of the infection away. Still, you were both feverish for two days and we often thought we would lose you.” 

He speaks like someone with knowledge of wounds and Aramis notices—much later than he should have, really—the sword at his side. D’Artagnan follows his gaze and smiles again. “I was a soldier once, a long time ago. Now, I prefer the quiet life.”

“Do you have a family?” He asks, curious.

“A son,” d’Artagnan replies in a voice heavy with affection. “Charles. He’s nearly sixteen now, almost a man, though he still seems little more than a child to me. My wife passed many years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says quietly.

D’Artagnan waves a hand. “I have mourned and made my peace. Besides, Charles keeps me occupied, these days.”

Aramis feels a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. It feels so good to talk about something other than blood or death that he staves off the exhaustion for a few more minutes of this almost normality. “Oh?’

“He’s brash, reckless, but he will be a fine man some day. I’m teaching him how to fight, shoot,” d’Artagnan laughs. “It would not surprise me if he needed a few years of adventure before settling down. In that way, he’s far too much like me.”

“He sounds like a fine young man,” Aramis agrees, letting the smile grow.

“He is.” Another laugh. “He will be excited to hear that I met some musketeers.”

Aramis huffs a weak laugh of his own. “Rather pathetic ones, sadly.”

“Hardly,” d’Artagnan replies, firm, like Porthos always has been. “You survived against insurmountable odds. I would not call that weak.”

“Perhaps, but I believe our own strength had little to do with it.”

D’Artagnan bows his head in agreement and stands, collecting his hat from the other bed. “I am sorry, but I must take my leave now. My return to Lupiac has already been delayed several days and my son will be worrying.”

“Thank you,” Aramis says sincerely. “We owe you our lives.”

D’Artagnan smiles. “You’re welcome, though I would like to think I merely did what any man would.”

“I doubt that,” Aramis replies. “Please, if there is any way we can repay you, let us know. You can find me at the musketeer garrison in Paris. Ask for Aramis. I will help with any matter I can.”

D’Artagnan reaches out and clasps Aramis’ good hand. “I shall. May God grant you a swift recovery and a safe journey home.”

“You, as well. Say hello to Charles for us. You can regale him with how you pulled two dying musketeers from the snow.”

D’Artagnan laughs, full and warm. “I will. Perhaps it will change his perception of me as growing too old in years. He’s become annoyingly protective as of late.” He places his hat on his head and tips the brim in farewell.

Aramis listens to him talk with the innkeeper and then the sound of the door creaking closed. Outside the window, snow is falling yet again, looking deceptively peaceful.

Aramis shifts his eyes away from it and moves closer to Athos, clinging to the warmth of the fire and the blankets and allowing it to soothe him back into sleep.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Athos is looking at him, blue eyes open and clear for the first time in days. Aramis exhales a long breath of grateful relief and presses their foreheads together in open affection. He managed to scale Athos’ walls when they thought themselves dead and now he’s not going to let the other man retreat behind them again, not yet.

Fortunately, Athos doesn’t pull away and Aramis can feel an arm cautiously snake across his side, holding him close.

“We’re alive,” Athos murmurs after a moment—words warm against Aramis’ neck and surprise evident in his voice.

“Yes,” Aramis agrees. “It’s quite a shock.”

“To say the least.” There is something dark lurking beneath the whispered words and Aramis wonders if for Athos surviving is also a disappointment. The thought makes him shift closer, wishing brokenly that he could somehow climb inside Athos’ skin and drive all that darkness away, if only to give his friend a few breaths of peace.

Instead, he allows himself another moment of sentimentality and plants a kiss on Athos’ temple before scooting back to permit a little space between them, knowing that Athos most likely doesn’t need touch for comfort like he does, but room to breathe and stitch himself back together.

“Where are we?” Athos asks after another moment of quiet.

“Inn north of Guéret.”

“And how, exactly, did we get here?”

“A kindly farmer dug us out of the snow.”

“We’re amassing quite a debt to farmers, it would seem,” Athos remarks and that wonderful drawl is back in his voice and Aramis finds himself laughing, suddenly, shaking from overwhelming _relief._

God, God, _they’re alive._

The laughter takes on a tinge of hysteria and Athos’ grip moves from his waist to his hand, slotting their fingers together and squeezing tightly—a much-needed anchor. He says nothing as Aramis slowly reels himself back in, eyes shut tight against the assault of tears and brittle down to his bones.

Savoy is still too close and his wounds ache, insistent and barbed, but _they’re alive_ and he doubts he’s ever been so thankful for anything in his life. After Savoy he wanted desperately to die, but now he wants to live as much and as fully as he possibly can—drag Athos into the light with him.

God, they might just be all right, in time.

“Sorry,” he says at last, when his breathing has evened out and the mania has fully passed.  

“Don’t be,” Athos replies, soft, and there’s that little, affectionate smile again—still carrying the same force as it did in the forest. “I hardly blame you. It’s been a rather … _trying_ week.”

“Understatement of the century, _mon ami.”_

Athos’ smile turns wry before fading completely. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin is several shades too pale, shadowed by still-healing bruises. Aramis imagines he looks about the same.

Two walking corpses.

“You should rest,” he says, squeezing Athos’ hand. “The physician will be here in a few hours.”

Athos hums in wordless agreement, eyelashes fluttering as he fights sleep. “You too.”

Aramis is about to assure him that he will, stop being such a mother hen, when his fingers shift and he feels rough scar tissue beneath his fingertips, along the length of Athos’ wrist.

He lifts Athos’ hand and sure enough, there are old wounds here, still an angry, slow-healing red, and he can tell immediately they’re from more than rope. He runs his thumb over them and feels Athos flinch, though he doesn’t rip his hand away as he might have done only a few days ago.

“Athos…”

He thinks he knows what this is but he has to be certain.

“It was a messy attempt,” Athos whispers, haunted. “After … after the children. I was stopped before it could become fatal.”

Once again, Aramis has no words, can only make a soft, hurt sound to convey his grief, and he wonders if Athos has ever tried again, or thought about it—all those nights alone with his drink and his ghosts—but he doesn’t ask, just vows to himself that from now on Athos will not have to fight these awful battles on his own.

He tells Athos as much and gets a surprised expression from the other man that cuts like a knife. “You do not need to concern yourself with—”

“Yes,” Aramis cuts him off. “We do. You’ve crawled into our hearts, my dear Athos, which means you won’t be rid of me or Porthos easily.”

“How wonderful,” Athos says with great sarcasm.

Someday, when they’re not grievously injured, Aramis will hit him for that. Presently, he settles on a quiet smile. Then, another realisation strikes him and he lets out a low groan. Athos is instantly on alert, eyes flicking over him in an attempt to locate the source of presumed injury.

“’M fine,” Aramis mumbles. “I just realised that none of this healing matters—Porthos is going to kill us as soon as he finds us.”

Athos lifts an eyebrow. “Surely he will be grateful that we’re alive.”

Aramis throws his good arm dramatically over his eyes and shakes his head. “No, you don’t know, Porthos. He’ll be furious for the stunt we pulled. Any gratitude will come much later. We’re going to die, _mon ami._ And then he’ll probably drag us back from the afterlife so he can kill us again.”

“That bad?” Athos asks with a hint of trepidation.

“You have no idea. Brace yourself for a lot of yelling and horrible _how-could-you-betray-me-like-this-I-trusted-you_ looks that will make you feel more guilty than you ever have in your life.”

“That will be a tall order,” Athos remarks dryly.

Aramis removes his arm to look at him. “Just wait. Porthos is a force of nature when the people he loves are injured.”

Athos’ expression twists into what Aramis eventually realises is stunned disbelief. “People he loves?”

“I just told you that, didn’t I? You’re in his heart now, _mon ami,_ and that means you have to be prepared to deal with the consequences.”

“But I have not done anything to—”

“You have,” Aramis insists. “But that’s the beauty of Porthos, you don’t _need to._ He will love you regardless.”

Athos’ eyes look misty for a moment, but it’s gone in a blink and Aramis decides it must have been a trick of the light.

“How long have we been here?” Athos asks after a moment, taking in their surroundings.

“Four days, give or take. It’s a bit fuzzy.”

A day and a half with the duke’s men and four days here—plenty of time for Porthos to have reached Paris and be on his way back with reinforcements. That is, presuming he reached Paris in the first place.

“You think he’s all right?” He asks, staring up at the cobwebs gathered in the ceiling beams.

“Yes,” Athos replies, easy and full of firm belief and Aramis has to smile. “He seems quite hard to kill.”

“He is. As are we, apparently.”

“I have always known that.”

Athos is rubbing his wrists and Aramis takes his hand again, deciding that he needs Athos close and the other man will just have deal with that for the time being. He can’t see Athos’ face when he presses up against his side, but somehow Aramis knows he’s arching an eyebrow at him.

“This might be considered a rather compromising position, you know. What would the innkeeper think if he saw us?”

Aramis scoffs. “We just survived hell on earth. I don’t give a damn about what the innkeeper might think. Or anyone else.”

Athos shifts and his arm drapes over Aramis’ waist again. There is a smile in his voice when he remarks quietly, “I did not say I minded.”

Aramis smiles into the pillow and blinks, suddenly sleepy. Everything hurts, but the exhaustion is heavier, like a physical weight pressing him into the mattress, making even his bones feel like lead.

“We need to find a way to get a message to Treville,” Athos is saying, but there is an uncharacteristic slur edging into his words. “Porthos is probably scouring the countryside right now, accosting farmers.”

Aramis huffs a breath of laughter and then winces when his damaged ribs twinge in response. “Yes,” he mumbles, battling to stay awake. “We should.”

If Athos replies, he doesn’t hear it, plummeting into sleep with the warmth of Athos’ breath on his cheek and the mattress soft and lovely beneath him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist that little cameo. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion and the road home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's penultimate chapter, people. I can't believe it. Thank you, everyone, for riding this roller coaster with me so far. Enjoy the chapter. :)

The next two days pass in fits and jerks. He sleeps, but the pain and Savoy are constant shadows, wrenching him awake gasping and shaking every few hours. As soon as his eyes open he’s reaching for Athos, checking to make sure the other man is still breathing with fingers against his pulse or a hand on his chest.

Athos bears this with calm patience, seemingly content to let Aramis cling until he’s finished putting himself back together—though Aramis suspects that he is an unintentional guard against the worst of Athos’ nightmares and _that_ is mostly why he’s allowed so close. Athos still cries out in his sleep sometimes or wakes half in the past, muttering about blood on his skin that won’t wash off, but Aramis always manages to coax him back, just as Athos does for him.

It’s much easier battling your nightmares with a friend at your side. He’s learned that from Porthos.

The concoctions the physician gives them for the pain help, too. And while Aramis usually hates drugging himself unconscious, he’ll make an exception just this once. Savoy is vicious and Athos’ ghosts are even worse and they’ve earned rest, surely, after everything they’ve endured for king and country.

He’d ask for a damn title if the mere thought of being a member of the aristocracy didn’t make him shudder. And he doubts, all things considered, Athos would be interested in that. A substantial amount of leave and a long, heartfelt apology will have to do.

It’s the morning of their seventh day at the inn when he truly starts to worry. Weather has been bad, the physician tells them as he examines their wounds, and travel difficult. Aramis knows that won’t stop Porthos, but how do they tell him where they are? He hates the thought of Porthos out there in the snow, slowly losing his mind as the days tick by and his search remains fruitless.

“Do not worry,” Athos says, glancing over at him, as the physician re-bandages his back.

His bruises have faded to sickly yellow and his shoulders slump with exhaustion and pain, but Aramis takes comfort in the steel he can still find in the blue eyes gazing steadily at him.

“I will always worry about Porthos,” he admits quietly.

“You said it yourself, he is a force of nature.” Athos reaches over and puts a hand over his good one—and that, at least, is one small victory, Athos being unafraid to show them affection; Aramis cherishes it. “Either he or Tréville will find us soon, I imagine.”

Aramis sighs and tells himself Athos is right. Porthos is fine and Porthos will find them and Porthos is _not_ dead out there in the snow, all alone.

The physician finishes with Athos and moves on to him. He leans against Athos for support as his back is cleaned, gritting his teeth through the pain of brandy on the cuts.

“They’re healing well,” the physician says as he winds fresh bandages around Aramis’ back and chest, binding them tight for his cracked ribs. “The arm, too. You shouldn’t experience any lasting problems with it, but give it adequate time to heal. The leg, especially.”

Those were the most serious wounds, they were told—gaping enough that they had to be seared closed rather than stitched.

“I promise we shall do our best to stay out of further trouble,” Aramis says, managing a smile. He’s immensely grateful to this unassuming country doctor who has worked so hard to save the lives of strangers.

Even more for the fact that the man hasn’t said a word about Athos’ brand.

“You soldiers,” the doctors says with a shake of his head, “always think you’re invincible.”

“I can assure you,” Athos’ voice is as dry as parched earth, “that is not the case.”

Aramis shivers at the memory of death creeping in and Athos’ eyes slipping shut and just … _fading,_ all of his life bleeding away into the cold—and it’s going to terrify him for a long time, how _close_ to the edge of the abyss they strayed—enough that it took a bloody miracle to bring them back. Athos’ fingers dig into his hand and he knows without looking that the other man shares his thoughts and fears.

“Still, be careful.” And with that the physician begins bagging up his supplies, promising to return tomorrow with more concoctions for the pain.

They both drink the herbal remedy left by the bed and ease themselves back down onto the mattress. The innkeeper asked a few days ago if Athos wished to move to his own bed, but Aramis had gone pale and Athos had quickly declined.

It’s both helpful and annoying that Athos can now see through him so clearly.

As has become customary, Aramis prays for Porthos as he waits for sleep, wishing his rosary hadn’t been lost somewhere in the woods.

_Keep him safe, let him find us, consolarentur eum ut illum fortem non desperet, please._

_Please…_

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Day eight. Aramis is losing his mind.

He wishes he could pace, move, do  _something_ to release the energy that is skittering beneath his skin like a million tiny ants. As it is, his fingers won’t stop trembling and twitching, and he suspects he’s probably driving Athos insane along with him.

They’re awake for longer stretches at a time now and it’s  _horrible._ His thoughts are consumed with Porthos and Tréville and  _worry,_ pressing down hard on his lungs until it’s hard to breathe. A storm has raged outside for two days and every time Aramis looks out the window and sees the whirling snow, his chest  _aches_ and  _Porthos Porthos Porthos_ pounds in his head like a drum.

He shifts, trying to get a better position, and ends up on his good side, facing Athos.

“You’re going to aggravate your wounds if you continue to flail around so much,” Athos says, admonishing.

“I know,” Aramis snaps, harsher than he meant to, and closes his eyes, willing himself to relax. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Athos replies, so infuriatingly calm and Aramis would hate him if he couldn’t still see all the places where Athos is fraying and fractured. “You should sleep.”

Aramis shakes his head and opens his eyes again. His gaze moves to the brand and he reaches out, carefully puts his hand over the ruined skin. Athos stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.

 “Does Tréville know?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

Aramis’ lips twitch up in a brief smile. “Yes, nothing gets past him, does it? Still, what happened? For him to let you in?”

Athos sighs and gives a small shake of his head. “Ask him. He will tell it better. My memory of those days is … not the best.”

His eyes are haunted and Aramis thinks of Athos drinking alone in the shadows of a tavern, cup after cup with no signs of stopping, and squeezes the back of his neck in silent reassurance.

 

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Day nine and it has been over three weeks since they left Paris for Lodève.  He misses it like an ache and the steady beat of  _Porthos Porthos Porthos_ is all he can hear.

He prays and prays and prays. Wakes screaming in the twilight with crows cawing madly and Porthos’ lifeless eyes and frozen face seared into his mind. Athos whispers into his neck, Latin and French, and they both ignore the tears he wipes away with a shaking hand.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Day ten and Aramis hears him before he sees him—his voice echoing up the stairs like thunder.

_“Where the hell are they?!’_

_Porthos._ Aramis closes his eyes and wheezes a shattered laugh that’s wet on the edges with more tears. Beside him, Athos struggles to sit up as Porthos’ boots make the stairs creak and groan.

The door opens with a  _bang_ and there he is— _God, there he is at **last** —_ wide-eyed, pale, and bruised with mud coating his cloak and uniform, but still as tall and strong as a mountain and Aramis has to make sure he’s alive, has to know this isn’t a ghost or some figment of his battered mind.

He hauls himself up with a grip on Athos’ shoulder and extends a hand toward Porthos, “come here,  _come_ _here_ ,” and then Porthos’ arms are around him and Porthos is saying his name like a prayer and Porthos’ gloved fingers are digging into his hair and there probably isn’t a dry eye in the room.

Porthos shifts just enough to drag Athos in as well and they stay like that for a long time, tangled up together and shaking with exhausted relief.

Aramis doesn’t ever want to let go, not for a second, not for anything.

Eventually, Porthos mutters something stupid about getting them all wet and muddy and withdraws. Aramis just about manages to keep a rather pathetic whine inside at the loss of contact—neither Porthos nor Athos would ever let him live something like that down. He watches, tense, as Porthos retreats back downstairs to fetch fresh clothes, and leans against Athos.

For the life of him, he cannot seem to stop shaking.

“See,” Athos murmurs, “no need to worry.”

Someday, he’ll wonder where Athos’ faith in them has come from. “No. Though we’d better brace ourselves for the yelling now.”

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

There isn’t any yelling. Instead, Porthos just cups his face in both big hands and says, quiet and  _desperate,_ “don’t you  _ever_ do that to me again,” and God, that’s much, much worse.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice thick, and lets Porthos rest their foreheads together.

“I am not,” Athos says from off to the side. “It was necessary.”

Porthos rounds on him—and here might be the explosion, why is Athos such an  _idiot?—_ and grabs the collar of his shirt in a tight grip. “Like hell it was. Like  _hell._ Throwin’ away  _your lives_ ain’t ever  _necessary_ , you hear me?”

“I was not throwing it away,” Athos replies, even and biting. “I was willfully laying it down for a greater cause.”

He doesn’t say  _for you_ but it’s  _there,_ buried beneath all that cold logic, and Porthos hears because he always picks up what Aramis can’t say and now Athos, too.

“Shut up,” Porthos growls, a bright sheen coating his eyes, and pulls Athos in for another hug. “Just shut up and promise you won’t  _ever_ do somethin’ that  _stupid_ again.”

Athos remains stubbornly silent. Porthos’ fingers tangle in the back of his shirt, gentle in spite of the emotion clearly coursing through him.  _God, God,_ Aramis has  _missed_ him.

“I searched for  _days._ Rode like hell all the way back to Paris and stayed long enough to shove the documents in Tréville’s hands and pick up a fresh horse and some other musketeers and then we came back. And we couldn’t find you. Found the duke’s men, but not you, and they wouldn’t say a damn thing about what they’d done to you and—” Porthos cuts himself off with a hitching breath and Aramis’ heart  _aches._ “So  _promise me,_ you idiotic bastard.  _Never again.”_

“I promise,” Athos whispers, sounding overwhelmed. And then again, a little louder, steadier, “I promise.”

Aramis puts his good hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “I promise, too. Never again,  _mon ami.”_

 Porthos lets Athos go, but keeps one hand on his shoulder and the other brushes the back of Aramis’ neck. “From here on out we stick together, yeah? No matter what happens.”

Aramis smiles through the fresh bout of tears pricking at his eyes and leans into them both. Finally,  _finally,_ for the first time he begins to feel halfway to whole—the jagged pieces inside of him fitting together again.

He tangles his fingers in both of their sleeves and holds on for dear life.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

They get the rest of the story in pieces over the next day.

Porthos rode through the night to reach Paris, pushing his horse to its limit. He had a run in with the men Bastard sent after him, but managed to kill two and evade the others. After two days, he made it back to the garrison and delivered the documents to Tréville.

“’E asked me to wait,” Porthos says, sitting by their bed with a bowl of stew cradled in his hands. “But I couldn’t. Two days…” He shakes his head. “It was too long already.”

Aramis and Athos exchange a guilty glance. By then, they were bleeding to death in the snow.

Tréville, thank God, at least managed to convince Porthos to take some men with him. He left with six others and by the time they reached the woods where he had left Aramis and Athos, it had been five days and fresh snow had covered any potential tracks.

“I didn’t even know where to start lookin,’” Porthos tells them by the fire that night as he helps rub salve into the healing cuts on Athos’ back.

His eyes had darkened and his jaw tightened when he saw them for the first time, something wild and ferocious under the surface for a breath before Porthos reined it in and he’s achingly tender whenever he touches either of them, obviously a bit terrified of causing more pain.

“I didn’t think you could’ve gotten far. Not with your wounds. So I started askin’ at nearby farms, seein’ if you’d sheltered there. No one knew anythin’ or had even seen you. Then I started to worry you’d done somethin’ stupid.”

He’s absolutely right about that and Aramis feels the pinprick of guilt balloon in his chest. He’s not sorry that they bought Porthos time—would pay for it again with his blood and tears and life, if necessary—but he hates making Porthos worry, making Porthos _hurt,_ and it’s all he seems to be able to do since Savoy. Hopefully, that will change now.

He reaches out and put his hand over Porthos' and that, at least, earns him a soft smile. 

The story continues the following morning over breakfast.

Porthos and the other musketeers ran into Bastard’s men on the third day of searching. They managed to kill most of the group after a brutal fight, but kept Bastard alive for questioning.

“’E admitted to havin’ seen you but ‘e wouldn’t say what happened or where. Just kept _smilin,’_ even when I got a little … aggressive.” Porthos’ jaw is tense with still-hot anger. “Now I wish I’d gutted the bastard.”

At least Porthos agrees on the nickname.

“No,” Aramis speaks up, staring down at the bandages on his leg. “I want to watch him hang.”

“Indeed,” Athos murmurs in agreement.

Porthos gives them both a grim smile that doesn’t get close to his eyes.

The company searched for several more days, hindered by frequent storms, before Tréville caught up with them, bringing with him the news of Aramis and Athos’ location.

“I left Tréville to take care of everythin’ and rode like the devil here. ‘E shouldn’t be too far behind.” He hesitates, glancing down at the table. “Sorry I wasn’t faster.”

“It’s fine,” Athos replies and Aramis smiles through the ache still in his chest—pleased at how easy the expression is coming now.

“We’ve been quite comfortable.  If a little bored and worried about you.”

Porthos arches an eyebrow at him, a teasing glint creeping back into his gaze. “Yeah, you buggers have been sleepin’ in a warm inn while I’m out scouring the whole damn snow-covered countryside for ya. If you didn’t look so pathetic I might be angry.”

 _Yes,_ Aramis thinks as his smile widens and Athos lets out a miffed huff beside him, _we’re going to be all right._

What a miracle.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

“You’re right,” Athos whispers to him that night while Porthos snores softly from the second bed, “I do feel guilty.”

“Told you,” Aramis whispers back. “We’re going to be feeling it for a long time, I think.”

“Yes,” Athos replies, sounding almost pleased. “I suppose we are.”

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Tréville comes sweeping in the following day on his way back to Paris with the prisoners. Apparently, some musketeers are also on the way to apprehend the good duke, which gives Aramis a vicious sense of satisfaction.

Tréville doesn’t apologise for what happened on the mission, but he doesn’t lecture them, either, so Aramis is willing to count it even, at least for now. And they have plenty of leave waiting for them in Paris as soon as they’re ready to make the journey back.

After another two weeks—during which Porthos is a cross between nursemaid and fierce, somewhat terrifying protector that is both amusing and heart-breaking to witness—they are, though it’s arduous and more than a little undignified. The roads are too messy for a cart to travel such a great distance so they ride, very slowly. It’s strange, being back on a horse with Porthos seated behind him and Athos a little ways ahead.

Once again, it’s almost as if this whole mission has been a strange dream—his wounds the only proof of what happened.

Well, the wounds and the fact that Athos keeps shifting to glance at them every few minutes, checking in, and he can quite clearly remember at the start of this mess Athos didn’t even acknowledge their presence except to order them to be quiet.

He smiles at Athos on the next glance, warm, and sees something soft and wary reflected back—as if Athos isn’t quite sure what to make of all this change, but Aramis knows it’s going to be beautiful.

“What did I tell you, Porthos? No one can resist our charm forever.”

Porthos laughs, loud and boisterous. “Yeah, we wore ‘im down, didn’t we?”

Athos’ next look is highly unimpressed and Aramis smiles enough to make his cheeks ache with it.

Something amazing, he’s sure of it. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inseparables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Here we are. The last chapter. I haven't been here in a long time. I'm better at starting things than finishing them, but I made it and so have you. Thank you, lovely people, for taking this journey with me. Enjoy the end. :)

It’s raining the day Bastard hangs.

They’ve been back in Paris for two weeks and Aramis has never been more grateful for the comfort of his own rooms and the bustle of the city around him. Winter is slowly yielding to spring, the earth thawing, and he and Athos heal piece by piece.

Now, he leans against the crutch supporting his weight—arm in a leather sling across his chest—and watches the executioner approach with a hood. Bastard, who’s real name he’s never cared to know, scans the crowd with those cold green eyes. Eventually, as he’d been hoping, they find his and hold.

He tips his head in mocking acknowledgment. Bastard smiles, sharp and pleased, and then the hood slides over his features and the executioner fits the noose around his neck. Porthos’ gloved fingers dig into Aramis’ shoulder and Athos stands at his elbow, supported by a crutch of his own, and face expressionless.

But Aramis knows him now and he can easily pick up on the anger and satisfaction coiled beneath his calm exterior. They’ve both been waiting for this—all three of them have, really, because he knows Porthos hates the man on the platform with perhaps an even greater passion than they do.  Porthos is fury and unforgiving fire when the people he loves have suffered.

The executioner pulls a lever. The platform opens and the rope pulls taut. Porthos squeezes his shoulder and Athos shifts closer.

Aramis doesn’t look away.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

Savoy is fading again—its claws don’t pierce so deep at night and he wakes without feeling flayed open and bloody. He can sense Porthos’ relief and he’s glad to bid goodbye to the worse of his ghosts.

Athos’, however, are much more tenacious, they quickly learn. Some nights are better than others, but the dreams always come. The difference between a good night and a bad one is how long it takes for them to start, if they wrench screams from Athos’ mouth or mere words, and whether or not they linger after Athos wakes.

Porthos finds him wedged into a corner of Aramis’ rooms one night, trembling and clawing at his own hands, and it’s then that Aramis thinks they need to tell Porthos what Athos confessed in the woods. He can’t stand Porthos not knowing and Athos needs all the steady, unwavering support Porthos has to offer—something that can only truly happen once all the secrets have been released and allowed to breathe.

“Absolutely not,” Athos snaps at him when he brings it up.  “It is bad enough that you know.”

Aramis forces himself not to bristle at the harsh words. They’ve both been cooped up for weeks—at the inn and now in Aramis’ quarters at the garrison—and it’s pushed them to the limits of their patience, with their situation and, on occasion, with each other.

“You cannot fight ghosts if you don’t know what they are,” he argues back. “Porthos should know what he’s battling every night.”

 _And I cannot carry this alone,_ he doesn’t say, but it’s _true._ He’s not entirely sure how to help someone as shattered as Athos, especially when he’s still so damaged himself—Porthos is infinitely better at fixing broken things.

“It is not his fight,” Athos insists, stubborn to the last, and holding himself tense, brittle, in his seat at Aramis’ small table. 

Aramis sighs and limps across the room to put a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Of course it is.”

“ _Why?”_ Athos spits, some of his composure cracking, and Aramis grits his teeth against frustration and grief—chest aching in a way he’s starting to think it always will around Athos.

“I told you. He cares about you, _mon ami._ We both do.” He hesitates, a realisation dawning. “Surely you do not believe that would change?”

Athos’ curls into himself slightly, defensive, but when he speaks his voice is steady once more. “How could it not?”

“It has not for me,” Aramis presses, squeezing Athos’ shoulder.

“That is different. We were dying. We were _dead_ and—” He snaps his mouth closed and shakes his head, final. “No. We do not tell him.”

“Athos—“

“ _No._ That is final, Aramis.” And then he’s grabbing his crutch and hobbling from the room—door closing with a bang in his wake.

Aramis curses loud and long in Spanish and runs an aggravated hand through his hair.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

On another night, less than a week later, Athos attacks Porthos when he’s caught in the grip of the past—holds a dagger to his throat and seems deaf to both Porthos’ soft entreaties and Aramis’ frantic shouts. Porthos is forced to disarm him and if he were not wounded, Aramis fears Athos would have caused real damage. Athos clearly agrees—horrified and shaken by what he’s done—and he caves easily after that.

It is Aramis who relays the details to Porthos—the rings and the _children_ and his voice breaks just as much as Athos’ had—while Athos huddles on the bed and stares at the wall with intense focus, unable to look at either of them.

When all the blood and dirt is out in the open, Porthos sits for a long moment, absorbing it. His eyes are wet; Athos’ hands shake in his lap and Aramis waits, patient, because he knows Porthos and this will only end one way.

Athos, uncharacteristically, is unable to bear the silence as it stretches and whispers, shattered and so achingly timid, “I understand, of course, if you wish to report me. I certainly deserve—”

Porthos is out of his chair and across the room in two long strides, cutting off the rest of Athos’ halting words by cupping his face with both hands. “Shut up,” he says, voice thick with emotion, and pulls Athos into his arms.

Athos stiffens for a breath, two, and then sighs out his surrender and lifts his arms to return the embrace—quivering fingers tangled in the back of Porthos’ shirt and this awful, small noise of sheer _pain_ slipping from his mouth and Aramis can’t keep his distance after _that._ He follows his aching heart from the armchair to the bed, pressing his forehead gently between Athos’ shoulder blades and wrapping his good arm around his waist so he can clutch the hem of Porthos’ shirt.

They stay like that for a long time, holding Athos up, and Aramis thinks, fierce, _we won’t leave you alone to face this._

And Porthos rests his cheek on top of Athos’ head and his arms and eyes and tenderness say _we’ll keep doing this until you believe you’re loved._

Athos makes another stunned sound in the back of his throat and tightens his grip and it’s the only thanks Aramis will ever need. They’re in this, he decides, unwavering, _easy,_ until the end—no matter what it takes and no matter how much it hurts.

He’s never going to let go of either of them and from them—from the strength of their hold on him—he thinks it’s safe to expect the same.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

His back is scar tissue, his ribs have healed, and his sling will be off in a few days when he and Porthos finally corner Tréville in his office and ask for the story of Athos.

“’E gave us permission,” Porthos says stubbornly when Tréville arches an eyebrow at them, and Aramis nods in confirmation.

Tréville frowns, looking a little surprised, but he tells them to have a seat and breaks out the wine. Aramis accepts a cup eagerly, sensing that they’re probably going to need it—every single glimpse into Athos’ past so far has been as black as hell and he doubts this is going to be any more pleasant.

Though at least it ends on a high note.  He knows that already, thank God.

“How much do you know?” Tréville asks once they’re settled.

“We know about the ring,” Porthos says and Aramis is infinitely glad that he’s taking the lead in this. “Le Renard. Not how ‘e became a musketeer.” He doesn’t mention the children and, thinking about it, Aramis doubts Tréville knows—it took expected death to get Athos to open up about it, after all.

Tréville sighs. “I suppose it would have been impossible to conceal forever.”

“We’re not going to say anything,” Aramis interjects, angry that Tréville could even think such a thing. The captain looks vaguely surprised _and_ amused at the emotion packed into his outburst, but doesn’t outwardly react other than to take a calm sip of his wine.

“All right.” He leans back in his chair. “It was this spring. You may remember—drunks and vagrants going missing from the streets. Criminal convoys being attacked. At first we thought little of it, but the numbers continued to increase and soon included women, children, and honest men.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “I remember. We investigated for weeks. Found nothin.’”

Aramis recalls, then, with sudden clarity: Porthos, dust-covered and frustrated, pacing back and forth in his room, relaying details of the case and venting in colourful curses while Aramis didn’t even pretend to listen.

Tréville nods. “Unfortunately that was in the immediate aftermath of the incident in Savoy.” Aramis barely manages to suppress a wince and feels Porthos squeeze his arm in reassurance.  “Our resources were spread thin and so finding the culprit took far longer than it should have.”

He sighs and something haunted steals into his expression. “Finally, we located an establishment on the outskirts of the city. It seemed to be a combination of a brothel and an underground fighting ring, headed by a man known only as Le Renard. I led a raid with a mixture of musketeers and red guards.”

He glances at them, solemn and jaw tight with remembered anger. “What we found … Men kept in cages like animals, women chained up in rooms—all of them looking half-dead already. It was disgusting.”

Aramis tries to picture Athos in that hell and shivers. Porthos shifts closer—hands curled into tight, angry fists against his thighs and yes, of everyone, Porthos can probably imagine it with the most clarity. Aramis leans against him in silent support.

“Le Renard’s men fought us,” Tréville continues. “We lost quite a few good men, but we managed to subdue them. Le Renard himself escaped.”

That _bastard_ is still out there, roaming free? Aramis’ blood turns to fire at the thought and his heart is an angry roar he sees echoed in Porthos’ gaze and shoulders and jaw. Tréville notices and shakes his head—a silent order to let it go.

He has no idea what he’s asking of them, but they will try—vengeance belongs to Athos, anyway.

“We had been releasing prisoners as we went and now turned our attention to escorting them to safety. Most of the branded criminals had already fled into the night—probably afraid of going back to prison—but we found the women and a few of the men near the end of the tunnels that ran through the whole damn place.” Here, Tréville smiles, rueful.  “And guarding them is a criminal, looking seconds away from collapsing, but still managing to hold a sword.”

“Athos.” Porthos has a small smile on his face and his voice is warm with affection.

Tréville nods. “Yes. He wouldn’t let me close to any of the others. Looking back, I’m not sure how present he truly was, but at the time it took me quite awhile to coax him into standing down. He only did so after I promised that the women and men be returned to their families and looked after.”

Oh Athos, who thinks himself a monster. If only he could _see._

“I knew he was nobility the moment he spoke and I was curious to hear his story. However, he passed out as soon as we got him and the others outside. His wounds … the physician said it was a miracle he had remained on his feet for so long.”

“He’s quite a stubborn bastard, isn’t he?” Aramis quips around the lump in his throat.

Tréville shakes his head, but his smile is affectionate. “He is. When he woke up, he asked to know if he was to be transferred to prison or to the colonies. Then I sat him down and made him tell me everything. I suspected he was more than he seemed—a guilty man doesn’t behave like he was—and I was right.” A soft sigh and Tréville takes another drag of his wine. “But when I offered to secure a pardon for him, he refused. He told me, then, some of what he’d done in the rings.”

Aramis bows his head and offers up a silent prayer for those dead children and for Athos himself.

“The king does not grant pardons lightly  , though he has refused to tell me details, he insists that his wife holds the power to prevent it from happening. That with her connections she managed to secure a conviction for him before and could do it again. However, I could not sit by and let an innocent man go to prison, especially one with Athos’ skills. So I convinced him that it would be far better penance to serve the king as a musketeer than rotting away in prison.”

Aramis bristles at that. “He has nothing to atone for. It was not his—“

“Aramis,” Porthos says, cutting him with a squeeze to his shoulder. He sucks in a deep breath, striving for calm.

“I know,” Tréville tells him, a sad edge to his voice. “But it was the only way to convince him.”

Well that makes a tragic amount of sense.

“How’d you manage to get it by the king?” Porthos asks—hand still a warm, anchoring weight on Aramis’ shoulder. “’E would’ve still had to commission ‘im.”

“I lied,” Tréville says, hard as steel. Aramis had suspected as much, but hearing put in such blunt terms still feels like a blow to the stomach. “We disguised the brand, gave him a new name, and told the king he was from a military background and a lesser, obscure noble family.”

“Treason,” Aramis comments, but without judgment—he would do the same in a breath if it meant saving Athos.

“Yes,” Tréville admits and sighs again, sharp. “But Athos has already proven himself a fine addition to this regiment. And it may be naïve optimism, but I hope that if the deception were ever to be discovered, his record of service to the king would be enough to earn him a pardon.”

It would be a reasonable request, but their king can be unpredictable. Aramis supposes they will deal with that situation as it comes. For now, they are alive and Athos’ secret is safe.

“Thank you for telling us,” he says, reaching for his crutch and using Porthos’ arm to pull himself to his feet.

“We’ll look after ‘im,” Porthos adds and earns an understanding nod from Tréville. Nothing gets past the captain, including Athos’ drinking habits and lack of self-preservation—perhaps, though Aramis hates the thought, even suicidal tendencies. And maybe, that means Tréville shares in their worry.

“Good,” is all he says, turning back to his papers. They’ve reached the door when he adds, “The Duke of Montmorency is to be beheaded for treason on the cardinal’s orders. The king extends his thanks for uncovering his treachery.”

Aramis gives a slight bow and dons his hat. He doesn’t feel the satisfaction he thought he would, but it is nice to know all they suffered wasn’t for nought. “Always happy to serve, captain.”

 Porthos nods, as well, and they leave Tréville to his paperwork. Athos is seated at the table in the courtyard, poking idly at a bowl of stew, but his gaze is knowing when he glances up at them. Aramis lets Porthos take the lead—Athos is still more wary of him—and Porthos doesn’t hesitate.

Aramis smiles as he watches Athos’ eyes go a bit wide when Porthos slings an arm over his shoulders and pulls him in for a warm hug—Porthos’ affection comes easy for those he loves, but it looks like Athos will take awhile to adjust.

“Are you always going to be this affectionate?” Athos asks, dubious and exasperated, after Aramis leans across the table to squeeze his hand.

“Yes,” Porthos declares, ruffling his hair in a move that would probably get him killed if it didn’t shock Athos into complete stillness. “And you’d better eat all of that.” He nods at the soup. “You need to keep your strength up.” A stern look across the table to where Aramis is fighting to control a grin. “You too.”

Aramis bows his head, overly solemn. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Being wounded, he discovers, does not stop Porthos from reaching over to smack his good shoulder. He laughs, brighter and easier than he has in weeks, months, since _Before,_ and Athos looks back and forth between them with cautious wonder—as though he cannot believe he has been included in this and is still afraid to accept it.

Aramis winks at him, warm and reassuring, and suppresses an inner thrill of victory when Athos relaxes a degree under the arm Porthos still has around his shoulders.

One step at a time. Until you finally begin to feel the change.

 ~  ~ ~  ~  ~

  **Spring, 1626**

“Get a load of ‘im, eh?”

Porthos nudges him and the disapproval in his tone is enough to get him to look from the weapon he’s been cleaning to where Athos is duelling Jean-Pierre and Albert in the middle of the courtyard.  Well, duelling is a generous term—Athos is soundly thrashing both of them.

Aramis grins as he watches Jean-Pierre take a blow to the side of the head and Albert stagger, rubbing dirt from his eyes. Gluttons for punishment, they are. Athos has duelled most of the men in the regiment and no one has so much as landed a hit yet.

“E’d better be careful,” Porthos mutters, sounding caught somewhere between concerned and frustrated. “That leg’s not fully healed yet.”

“The physician cleared him for duty,” Aramis points out.

“ _Light_ duty. Nothing too strenuous yet.”

“He’s fine. I’d be more worried about the other two.”

His own leg still aches on occasion, as does his arm, but he can move without trouble and has also been cleared for duty. Porthos, however, remains stubbornly protective and Aramis will always feel too guilty to call him on it.

Jean-Pierre raises his sword in surrender and staggers over to their table, collapsing across from Aramis while Albert stubbornly attacks again, clearly unable to tell when he’s beaten. Aramis can almost picture Athos rolling his eyes beneath his usual steely composure.

“He’s a menace,” Jean-Pierre snaps, wiping a hand across his dirty face. “He fights dirtier than _you,_ Du Vallon.”

Aramis represses a glare. God, he hates this idiot— _definitely_ an example of breeding paving the way instead of talent.

Porthos grins, all traces of worry gone in Jean-Pierre’s presence. “Ah, you’re just a sore loser, Jean-Pierre.”

“Hardly,” Jean-Pierre says, peevish. “He’s arrogant. Thinks himself above the rest of us.”

Aramis sets his pistol down on the table and fixes Jean-Pierre with a hard look. Enough. “I can assure you, he does not.”

Jean-Pierre blinks at him in surprise—and right, the rest of the regiment is still probably unused to the idea of two expanding to three. It’s not the first time he’s gotten an odd look for defending Athos, but he can’t really bring himself to care, especially when Jean-Pierre is involved.

A glance to the duel reveals that Albert has also surrendered. Perfect. Leaving Jean-Pierre in Porthos’ capable company, he picks up his sword and stands.

“Athos!”

Athos looks up, halfway through sheathing his sword. Aramis grins at him and raises his weapon. “I believe it’s my turn.”

Athos arches a sceptical eyebrow. “You wish to duel me?”

Right, well that does sound fairly arrogant, but there’s a teasing smirk in the corner of Athos’ mouth that takes all the bite out of the words.

“Yes, it’s time someone taught you a lesson, don’t you think?” he teases back.

Athos redraws his sword. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“Be careful, you two!” Porthos calls from the table. “If you break somethin’ I’m not draggin’ the physician here again.”

Aramis nods to him in reassurance—and is happy to see that Athos does the same. He’s been getting better over the past few months at accepting their presence in his life, even if the nights are still bad and there are days when he withdraws from them, needing to be coaxed out of the shadows his mind so easily sinks into.

Aramis and Porthos have been patient. One step at a time.

“Loser buys dinner?” Aramis asks as they circle each other.

“Or drinks?”

Aramis laughs and shakes his head. “No. You’d drink me down to my last coin.”

“So you admit you’ll lose, then?”

 “Just shut up and duel me.”

With a lopsided smile, Athos acquiesces. The clash of swords is loud in the courtyard and all of Aramis’ concentration immediately narrows down to his opponent. He’s not expecting to win, not against Athos, but he’ll at least give him a work out.

And that night, sporting a few fresh bruises because Athos doesn’t believe in holding back, Aramis will buy him dinner at what has become their usual tavern and pretend it isn’t a relief to see him eat instead of drink and it will be peaceful until Porthos cheats the wrong person at cards and starts a brawl.

They’ll fight, side by side by side, and they’ll win, of course, because they’ve had the odds stacked much higher than a dozen red guards and they’re here, _alive_ —still fierce and defiant in the face of danger.

After, they will stumble out into the gentle chill of a spring night with Porthos’ arms around their shoulders and the future for once a bright, promising thing stretched out in front of them.

And Aramis will look up at the stars glittering overhead, cherishing the warmth of Porthos and Athos at his sides, and feel something in his chest knit itself whole again— _life_ like a fire in his blood and his bones, unquenchable.

And there, in that breath, that moment, he will be happy. Achingly, wonderfully _happy._

Let it come—danger, death, darkness, ghosts, it doesn’t matter. They have each other and they will prevail.

Always.

 

**_Fin._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! 
> 
> Except not really. A sequel is currently in the works (because I'm having way too much fun to stop now and also I'm not good at quitting while I'm ahead), and I'm hoping to have the first chapter up sometime next week so be on the look out for that. 
> 
> Until next time. :) 
> 
> \- C xx


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